


The Tournament.

by sapphospecs



Category: Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019)
Genre: Batman villains make appearances but they are written as if they fit into the show, Comic Book Violence, F/F, F/M, Ivy makes her grand entrance in chapter 4, Slow(ish) Burn, it'll only get angstier, ivy and harley dance, just be patient!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphospecs/pseuds/sapphospecs
Summary: Set some time after 2x08. Some considerations: Dr. Psycho is out of the crew. King Shark is busy dealing with Tabitha. Proceeding as if 2x09-2x13 never happened. I'm rewriting Harley's story my way. But same endgame ;)That kiss threw Harley Quinn for a loop. But she's avoiding her feelings because everything is fine! She and Clayface plan to loot one of the biggest villains in Gotham--but they discover something else much bigger than them is going on in the city. She joins forces with Batman to figure out what's happening--but also to avoid Ivy. Because everything is, again, fine. Her feelings catch up to her sooner or later.
Relationships: Harley Quinn/Batman, Harley Quinn/Poison Ivy, Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Poison Ivy/Kiteman
Comments: 39
Kudos: 131





	1. robbery gone wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Lmao this is my first fanfic anywhere and so outta my comfort zone. So, you know, be gentle. I'm just a grown ass corporate gay doin' my worst.
> 
> To be updated every week on Saturdays. For how long? Idk. Buckle up, buttercup.

CHAPTER 1 – robbery gone wrong

“Just…give…me…the… _fucking_ bag!” Harley thwacks her bat at a masked fiend, and his teeth fly like kernels of corn. His spit and blood splash her chin. She tumbles back, bag clutched. Too easy. She’s arrived at Vandal Savage’s castle, which is embarrassingly small and littered with Costco beer cans. Weak. It’s what Ivy calls a neckbeard gallery: unfurnished off-white rooms, a PS4 controller with Cheeto dust, a sea of trash, and crunchy tissues. Even Catwoman won’t steal shit here. But, at least Vandal made it easy for Harley to find all his treasure. And coveted Pokémon card collection. She enters a square room, accented with acrylic display boxes of gold chains, chalets, gemstone necklaces, and weaponry. There’s a big ass plaque hanging above the doorway that says, “Generations of Wealth.” 

Two more masked guys pop out, fists drawn, their white plastic masks resembling Guy Fawkes and Hannibal Lecter. No biggie. 

She slides through their legs like she’s stealing first base and kicks in Guy Fawkes’s knees, giggling at the sound of cartilage separating from bone. Hannibal Lecter hoots behind the mask and she hoots back, gouging out his eyes. A gold axe slices Clayface in half and he exclaims, true to character. “BenJAmin BaAARker!” Footsteps squelch him flat, like a stampede of elephants. 

Vandal Savage is all strong brow ridge and literal black neckbeard down to his shoulders. He emerges from a trapdoor in the floor, tossing masked goons to the wayside. His black robe’s got nondescript orange stains on it—juice or Kraft mac n’ cheese—who’s to say? 

He gears up with a diamond-tipped spear, brewing up a speech. “Harley Qui—” 

_Fwack!_ “Not now,” Harley says, wiping the blood off her bat. 

Vandal growls, on his back and elbows. He leaps up like a tiger, charging with his spear. “Nobody steals from Vandal Sava—” 

_Crrrack!_ “Seriously, not now," the hench says, flinging a chest at Vandal, sending him back into the trapdoor. 

Harley and the goons take turns stomping Vandal into the hole, on beat. He’ll recover from those broken bones. 

“Okay, look, I’ll just take this bag. You assholes can have the rest, deal?” Harley grins feverishly, like she does with Ivy, and it always works on her. 

It did not work. Goons and self-identifying henches pour into the room. Someone shoots a net at Harley like she’s a pest. Every muscle in her body tautens when they shock her, and she squeaks. Someone else snatches her bag of goodies. Guess she’s not buying those raised flowerbeds for Ivy. 

But there’s something weird going on. Everyone’s wearing masks, but they’re beating the shit out of each other, pulling and tugging for a piece of Harley. 

“She’s worth more than any of this shit!” One shouts. 

“Give her to me,” another one says, flinging her over his shoulder. 

Clayface grows two giant hands and scoops hordes of henches aside. They blast a giant hole in the wall with a bazooka. Acrylic boxes shatter and shards of it pierce through Clayface’s arms. 

“Clayface, do _not_ call Ivy for this!” Harley presses her cheeks against the net. “I don’t want her getting involved in my bullshit. _Again_.” 

“I know who to call,” he says, pulling his arms back in. _Klonk._ A sword to the face. 

“ _Dooon’t call Ivy_.” Electricity courses through her ass and up to her nose. Harley goes limp. 

x o x o

Harley stirs. She’s tied to a chair. Her head’s as smoggy as Gotham, her hair’s still tangled in the net. Acrylic plastic is embedded under her left eye. The floor is luxe, like red velvet, and the walls are made of impeccably cut stone tiles the color of a clearwater lake. The furniture is white, down to the lounging chairs, the desk for coke, the framed panorama of the city behind it, the oil drum brimming with jewelry. It smells like grease and boys. The goons who kidnapped Harley take turns drooling over a giant bucket of KFC chicken and fries, slouching in their seats. 

And then, there’s the guy in the white suit and two guns holstered to his waist, drawing tallies on the whiteboard next to the desk. Black Mask. 

“Jeremy, you’re out of the running,” he says, spinning blue Expo marker. “Please leave your booty in the oil drum and pack your bags immediately. And pass the fries.” 

“Aw, man.” Jeremy removes his green alien mask and drops his gold necklaces into the drum. He’s a bland white guy with bad teeth, and he just wants braces. 

_Squeeeech._ Black Mask crosses Jeremy off the intricate bracket system on the board. “Steve, you’re still in the running for the next leg on the tournament. Here’s a little bonus for catching Harley Quinn.” He flips a roll of hundies at Steve, hitting him square in his tatted brown neck.

Harley scoots forward. “Hey, fuckface!” Her bat pokes out of the glinting booty heap. Always the center of attention at the wrong time. “How about you untie me so I can give you a bonus!” She wriggles her hands behind her back. Zip ties? _So_ TSA. They remind her of that time she got arrested at DFW for packing a vibrator. She was on her way to Joker, who was busy crowbarring the fuck out of Aquaman. Joker wasn't doing it for her. Ivy picked Harley up and laughed through the 45-minute car ride home. 

“Oh, finally,” Black Mask coos, fully expecting her awakening. “Why don’t you join the bracket, Harley? Bring me loot, beat my goons out, move forward, and you get the biggest cut. Whaddaya say?” 

“Sounds like a rip-off.” 

“Your cut would be bigger than any heist you’ve ever pulled off.” He snatches a grease-stained paper bag from a Ghostface-masked goon and shoves them in her face. “Fries?” 

“First of all, did you forget when you robbed Gotham National Bank with me and Joker? You fucked us over and we spent Thanksgiving in Arkham. And second of all, you know sweet potato fries are better.” 

The goons gasp and a drumstick rolls across the room to Harley’s foot. 

Black Mask’s shoulders drop. “Alright, fine. That’s all the shits I have to convince you.” He pulls out his thick-barreled guns and points them at her. “So, join the tournament, or I blow you to high heaven.” 

She squints at the muzzles and draws on. “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…….” Her heartbeat fills her thoracic cavity and plummets into her belly. Not a physiological reaction of fear, but of something closer to anticipation and fluttering excitement. _If you’re gonna pull the trigger, ah fuck it, just pull it._

A dark figure smashes into the desk, blasting an opaque cloud of coke into the air.

“Oh, thank God, I’m rusty on comebacks.” Harley waddles backward, still tied to the chair, and throws her weight backwards onto the goons. _Krrrk!_ A chair leg breaks loose and goon ribs snap like walnuts—he falls into the framed panorama photo, dragging it down, and imprinting his head with glass. Posters of Bruce Wayne with heart stickers stared back at Harley, haphazardly taped in a crooked line. “What the fuck.” 

Bullets rip through the coke smoke and then suddenly they don’t. Harley aims, ass first, for the crowd of goons surrounding and tugging on to tall, dark, masked figure beside the oil drum. He crumples to his knees, a mass of deadweight. 

Black Mask emerges from the havoc, a microwave ready to launch over his head. “Hey, boys! I’ll give you a 500K bonus for Batman. And 250K for Harley Quinn.” 

“250K??” Harley groans. Motherfucking glass ceiling, right? She charges back at full speed, breaking the chair against a hard-skulled goon. His brains leak out from his head like stew. Twirling, she uses Batman’s back as a launchpad to grab her bat. She shoves a handful of jewels in her bra. “Sorry, Bats. I’m just worth…less.” She crawls out of the goon pile and makes for the big metal doors to the left. 

But goddamn it, she stops. _That’s_ who Clayface called? And he said _yes_? Black Mask seizes goons by the throat to get front row seats to the break The Bat show. 

“Who woulda thought? I capture Harley Quinn and end up with The Batman.” He plops back on the sofa and tears into the KFC bucket. “Make it 750 for Batman, then,” he thunders. 

750K?! Harley’s pupils sharpen like scalpels. Nobody’s making money today. The goons trample Batman, flipping him like a pancake. He growls out in pain. Harley springs back and clocks the masks off the goons. Ghostface! Freddy! And a discount paper Jason mask. A steady stream of ass-beating saliva sprays from their mouths. She lands on Batman, knees in his lower back, left arm around his shoulders. She slams the first button she sees on his right arm. A hundred mini batarangs explode into the goon party. Helpful, but not right. She presses the next button. A direct call to Catwoman. Nope. Someone flattens her on Batman like a sandwich with a surprisingly heavy couch cushion. She hits the next button. Maybe? 

Space and time seem to drift, and Harley can feel every molecule in her body tingling with energy. White light blinds her. She digs her fingers into Batman’s shoulders. A deafening crackle fractures the moment.


	2. CHAPTER 2 - the batcave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley Quinn has just tried to rob Vandal Savage--and failed--because Black Mask and his goons are up to no good. Batman swoops in to feed Arkham Asylum a healthy serving of Gotham's worst, but he also fails spectacularly. Harley Quinn and Batman cross paths, once again. Whether it's an alliance or a one-way ticket to Arkham, Harley's determined to figure out what Black Mask is up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th! This chapter was super fun to write and I hope it's fun to read!! Things are only gonna get messier from here. The chapters will get longer, too. 
> 
> Updated for wonky dialogue breaks. Big shoutout to you, anonymous commenter :)!

CHAPTER 2 – the batcave

Harley peeks out from her arms and recognizes the enormous, looming walls and the drip-drop of the water somewhere out in the vast darkness, echoing in waves. The Batcave. Where he fucks bats. The jewels in her black and red crop top fall out and slide across Batman’s cape.

Batman is facedown, ass up, and still pinned under her. He croaks, suddenly alert.

She hopes out loud.“So, because Clayface called you, does that mean you won’t—”

He pushes off the ground and catapults Harley off his back. A quick struggle ensues, but the ground catches her, and Batman is suddenly on top of her. Air hisses out of her chest. Her bat rolls away.

“—take me to Arkham?”

“This is the second time you’ve seen the cave. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t turn you in.” He presses down on her, the full weight of the polyester suit and armor constricting her breath.

“Clearly, we’re on the same team,” she croaks.

“That was rhetorical, Quinn.” His back cracks and he winces. There’s a sickle-shaped gash from his neck to his jawline and a magnificent blue bruise coloring his chin.

“Look, Clayface called you for help. That’s means we’re fightin’ the same asshat, Bats.” She squints as his illuminated white eyes. There’s nothing she can see behind there, and it drives her nuts. She can always see something human behind the eyes.

“You and Clayface were robbing someone," he says.

Harley retorts, “We were robbing Vandal Savage, you batfucking freak.” She clutches his wrist and eases up the pressure. Her tattered gloves catch against his forearm claws.

He flinches at the mention of Vandal Savage, as if he should allow it. “Then why were you with Black Mask?”

“His goons ambushed my robbery and stuffed me into a net. I’m not working with Black Mask.”

Batman’s cowl contorts, his face is as slack as hanging dough. “You’re not?”

“Look, there’s something weird going on with the goons in the city. They’re competing against each other. Black Mask is running some kind of tournament to get all the goons to rob everyone in Gotham. I don’t know why. He’s letting them do the dirty work and he gets the biggest cut.”

“What’s in it for the goons?”

“Nothing,” Harley says, shrugging. “They’re just fucking stupid.”

“Why didn’t Poison Ivy save you?” Batman asks. It's common knowledge at this point that where there's a Harley Quinn, there's a Poison Ivy. 

She rolls her eyes and grumbles. Everyone fucking asks about Ivy, everyone’s on her ass about that kiss, everyone wants to know why they’re avoiding each other. “I don’t know, I mean. Do I even care? She’s busy doing environment and shit and I’m busy… doing. This.” She lies flat and realizes how ridiculous this is.

Batman backs off. She can almost feel his concern.

“Why didn’t Catwoman save _you_?” she shoots back.

That catches him off-guard. Batman stutters. “I—we’re—taking a catnap.”

Harley sheepishly fidgets under him. “So,” she says from the corner of her mouth, gazing lower and lower upon his body, “how much padding do ya keep down there?”

The giant Batcomputer towering over them glows and buzzes. A serene robot lady who sounds like Siri’s more serious cousin says, “Incoming call from Commissioner Gordon.”

“Look, it’s not an emergency,” Jim huffs. “There’s a robbery at Gotham Credit Union.” He grunts and static seeps through the Batcomputer’s speakers. “Tripped over my shoelaces. Anyway, I just thought we could start doing our weekly movie night again, you know? We can watch _Atonement_ , your favorite!”

The call ends abruptly.

“ _Atonement_?” Harley asks as Batman lets up, using the Batchair to steady himself.

She leaps to her feet.

“It makes me feel…. things.” He hunches over. His screensaver flashes: Jim and Batman eating hotdogs at the Hall of Justice, and then Jim’s selfie in the Batmobile—Batman in the driver’s seat gripping the steering wheel. “I’m taking you to Arkham, Quinn. For your own good,” he says, turning around and seizing her arm.

“For my own good?” Harley twists out of his grasp. “Bats, it wouldn’t do anyone good. I mean, you’re in no condition to figure out what the hell Black Mask is up to.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“It’ll be. . .fun.” She blathers. “And, because, you know. I’m just, like, a busy person who kisses people and has shit to do.” She can’t bring herself to kiss Batman without ending up in cuffs. And not in the good way.

He grumbles. “After this, I’ll take you to Arkham.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Harley rolls her eyes and taps “Enter” on the keyboard. “How the hell do you work this thing? What is this, Windows Vista?”

Batman scratches his bat ear. “N-no. It’s the 5.0 release of WayneOS. I know there are some security bugs, but I hear Wayne is releasing a patch tomorrow night.”

Harley suspects what half of Gotham suspects: that Bruce Wayne provides all of Batman’s technology and weapons. And that they are secretly best friends. She pulls up Black Mask’s criminal profile and slips her phone to Batman. “Will you order something? I’m thinking Italian.”

“How did you access my criminal index?”

“Maybe Bamonte’s? Ooh, they have really good fresh bread…”

“The Maroni crime family runs Bamonte’s as a front.”

Harley waves him off. “Put me down for their mushroom cavatappi.”

x o x o

A half-eaten slice of perfectly toasted ciabatta bread sits in a black to-go box. Harley’s breaking her record for most consecutive hours spent with Batman without being sent to Arkham.

She insisted that Batman order his own pasta. Begrudgingly, she shared her lunch with him. She spins in his chair and he stands next to her, scrolling through Black Mask’s criminal profile, over and over. It doesn’t tell her anything new:

BIRTH NAME: Roman Sionis  
ALIAS: BLACK MASK  
HEIGHT: 6’3”  
EYE COLOR: Brown  
BIO: Adopted from a small neighborhood in South Shanghai, Roman grew up in a wealthy, elite family in Gotham. The Sionis family doctor carelessly dropped Roman on his head, resulting in behavioral problems that would plague the boy for his childhood. The Sionis household mingled with the Waynes to keep up social appearances and to hide their ugly family secrets and to protect Janus Cosmetics.

After Roman graduated high school, his parents appointed him Executive Creative Director of Janus Cosmetics. While working there, he met Ceres, a low-ranking IT technician at the company, and fell in love with him. Roman’s parents did not approve of the relationship, as they were bigots. Ceres was a gay Mexican man. They forced Roman to break off the relationship.

Roman then burned down the Sionis mansion, killing his parents. Ceres left him after the murders. He inherited Janus Cosmetics, along with the Sionis family fortune. Roman’s impulsive and brash business instincts eventually bankrupted and destroyed Janus Cosmetics. Bruce Wayne bailed the company out but only after Roman stepped down.

Humiliated and utterly defeated, Roman broke into the cemetery where his parents were buried. Lighting struck upon him in the cemetery, flinging him into his parents’ mausoleum. He emerged from the mausoleum with a Black Mask, carved from his father’s ebony casket, fused to his face.

CRIMES: Murder, assault, mutilation, racketeering, theft, armed robbery, keeping alligators as pets, hating ginseng tea, intimidating, flirting with Bruce Wayne, dry elbows, eating century eggs without soy sauce or rice, printing Black Mask ghost money, etc.

“Ugh, so dark.” Harley shivers like a buzzer. “Dry elbows are such a bummer.” She scrapes dried pasta sauce off her top.

“This isn’t going anywhere,” Batman mutters. “We need a lead.”

A notification banner pops-up on the screen. Black Mask’s tournament starts its second round. Reports of armed robberies dashed across the glowing map of Gotham, like a rash that won’t go away. And the kicker: Capture Harley, advance automatically. Capture Batman, advance automatically.

“Finally, some equal opportunity,” Harley says, raising the roof. “Okay, so this means they don’t know we’re working together.”

“I guess—” He grunts. He twists his spine column back and forth, like he’s gearing up to grapple to giant stalactites hanging above. “—that means we can’t work separately.”

She’s _supposed_ to protest, but instead, she blushes. Her feelings for Ivy are relentless. She boils the tenderness down to chaos and exhilaration. There’s nothing she can say to win her over. So, what, if they kissed? Harley won’t sink to asking Ivy to leave Kiteman for her. She’s a bad guy, albeit a soft one, but she can’t ask someone to relinquish their happiness for her. So, she smolders like a car in the summer, and smirks at Batman. They _must_ work together.

Uncharacteristically, Batman teeters, as if his cape is a thousand pounds, and falls on his ass. “Ow.”

Harley snaps out of her cotton-candy introspection. “The hell is wrong with you?” Her gaze falls flat on him.

“Back. Is. Killing. Me.” He rolls ever so slightly, from side to side, stiff as ice.

“Do you want me to beat the shit out of you with my bat?” She slings her bat over her shoulder and giggles. Immediate regret. What a stereotypically Harley thing to say. Is this what flirting feels like? She forgets.

Batman stretches his legs, his arms fanning out, fists squeezed. “Roman Sionis isn’t one to shy away from theatrics,” he says. “Wherever his goons go, they’re bound to lead us to his second hideout. He wants us to find him.”

Harley lies down next to him to ease the tension of the power dynamic. She knew Batman couldn’t have been comfortable with her standing over him, flipping his Batarangs on her finger.

Batman writhes around, as taut as a cable. It makes Harley hold her breath. “So far, it looks like the goons are circling around GCPD headquarters. Looking for Jim,” he says, straining his neck to get a look at the Batcomputer screen. It’s so bright and harsh that it sucks the moisture out of Harley’s eyes. The red goon dots spread like a pandemic across the screen.

“Oh no,” Harley says, “they’re surrounding the mall. Ivy.”

Her worry dissipates when she rationalizes: Ivy’s probably with Kiteman. Then she feels stupid for the disappointment of _knowing_ she won’t have to save Ivy because she’s not even at the mall.

 _Krrrkggh_. Batman rolls to his side.

Harley can’t take it anymore. The sound of his back almost-cracking and _kerklunking_ is like nails on a chalkboard. She sticks her hands under him like a spatula and flips him on his back. He protests—

She shushes him. She climbs on his back, gripping his shoulders snugly.

“Quinn, wait!”

She flexes and snaps his shoulders up.

“OH!” Batman freezes. “Oh.” He melts into the floor, like butter.

She wraps her hands together and strikes him, square in the back. It takes him off guard, but she can feel his spine knock back into space. Her knees slide against the cool cave floor. She forgets how to be for a moment, straddling Batman beneath her. So helpless, so vulnerable.

“Uhm, Quinn? Can you—?”

Harley peeps. “Sorry.” She releases him from her thighs and pulls her booty shorts to un-bunch them.

“Now, we just have to follow the goons.”


	3. watch your six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley and Batman are officially working together and they must save the GCPD and Jim from Black Mask's henchmen. Meanwhile, Harley deals with Ivy and her wedding, slow-creeping back into her life. Batman finds out that someone is moving on without him and will have to reckon with it later. Soon enough, Harley finds out where Black Mask is meeting next with his crew--and it involves glamor, glitz, and masks. And, of course, where there's acting and masks, Clayface is more than ready to step up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this week's been hard, y'all, work-wise. my company just laid off some people, including some close coworkers, so I was v shook. writing this fanfic keeps me grounded, though :) had a lot of fun letting the characters breathe and make some references I'm sure you guys will pick up on LOL 
> 
> hope y'all enjoy!

CHAPTER 3 – watch your six

Harley wakes up. It’s 6 AM. For the night, Batman vowed, just one, he let Harley sleep in a little Batcave guest bedroom. It’s cozy, like an exquisite business-class train room. Some wireless phone ports, PJs, Wayne toiletries (featuring electrified floss). The whole room is fashioned from grey cave wall, and there’s just one flat cylinder lamp providing a soft coat of light. 

Harley FaceTimes Clayface. She hates the way their screens bounce around her phone, like amoebas. Maybe it’s time to move to WayneOS. 

“What are you wearing?” Clayface clutches his figurative pearl necklace. 

“Oh, this?” She gestures at the men’s Wayne Enterprises black shirt engulfing her body and arms. “I’m in the Batcave.” 

“Does Batman hang upside down when he sleeps?” He feigns a romantic sigh, the back of his hand on his forehead. “He must become the bat and the man,” he says, “to become the singular symbol of incorruptibility.” He shakes his fist, proud of his tangential character analysis.

At this point, Harley knows not to engage Clayface when he monologues. It’s endearing now. “All I know is Black Mask is up to something with his goons. Batman was supposed to take him to Arkham, thank you for calling _him_ out of all people, but they beat the shit outta him, so I ended up saving his ass. We’re working together for now. He’s letting me sleepover,” she says. 

He simpers. “Sleepooover? So, this isn’t you avoiding your feelings and Ivy?” 

“No!” she exclaims, too eagerly. “Again, you’re the one who called Batman.” 

“Are you kissing him impetuously, too?” 

“I could be. Catwoman dumped him.” She regrets stating any of this out loud. “Where the hell are you?” She squints at the screen—and there are no plants, no Suicide Squad t-shirts, no Riddler on the hamster wheel. 

“Black Mask goons broke into the mall, so what better to do but to break into the theater department at Riddle U and camp out in the crawlspace?” He gestures to the low wooden-beamed ceiling and the presumably stolen crescent moon leaning against the wall. A spider crawls across Clayface’s forehead. 

Harley shudders. “Clayface, just meet us at GCPD. We’re going hench-huntin’.” 

x o x o

Harley white-knuckles it as she clings to Batman, gliding over Gotham. His hand sinks into her hip and it’s an uncomfortably tight hold. _What if he just dropped me? No, Batman would never do that._ He pierces through the air, like the last few seconds of a race. Harley watches a high-speed chase on the HQ Highway just below. Her feet tingle in her sneakers when she watches the Dodge SUV drift around a tough corner, lining the asphalt with their rubber.

Batman nosedives and grapples onto a stone gargoyle (which seem to litter across Gotham) atop a nearby building and lands on the GCPD roof. 

She can’t resist asking, “Can we do that again?” 

His answer is predictable. No. The Bat-Signal is a-light and blinking. “The goons wanted to lure me here.” He yanks the big red door to GCPD open. 

Harley follows Batman down the stairs, where the walls are yellowed from cigarette smoke. She expects him to go down the stairs in true Batman-fashion, flinging himself over the railing and soaring to the ground floor. But he doesn’t. He goes one step at a time, which feels too small for Harley. She walks alongside him in silence. 

“So, why’d Catwoman dump you?” she asks, not a better time than this. 

“We’re not partners,” he quips, as if it’s an excuse. 

“Ugh, thank god.” Harley spins her bat on her knuckles. “You would never talk to Jim about your _feelings_. But I’m not Jim. Cooome oooon, I know even Batman has _feelings_.” 

Batman ignores her. They turn the corner and begin another flight of stairs. “She says I’m too serious.”

Harley feigns a Joker-esque grin. “ _Why so serious_?” Her innards prickle when she thinks about how much she hates pranks now. Joker pulled too many fucked up pranks for her to ever enjoy one, no matter how small. Sometimes it was mayonnaise toothpaste and sometimes it was ‘Killer Croc ate the cat.’ Eventually, he did. 

_Ding_. It’s a text from Ivy. Finally. Harley’s been trying to resist reaching out, but she can’t avoid Ivy forever. 

There’s a link in the text to Greenhaus, a cute little plant wonderland, and restaurant. Succulents in geometric pots as far as the eye can see.

**Ivy** : Why haven’t we been here yet? It’s so on-brand for me.

Harley doesn’t reply just yet. She shoves her phone back into an undisclosed pocket in her tiny, tiny shorts. _Ivy’s Bachelorette party._ She almost forgot. She’s too busy actively trying to push Ivy and Kiteman out of her mind. But Greenhaus is definitely where Ivy wants to do her party. She’s not subtle when it comes to food, smooth jazz, or movies. Harley silences the conversation. 

Harley and Batman reach the ground floor, just outside Jim Gordon’s turf. Batman leans against the door. There’s barely a hum of male voices, and Cheryl's, ricocheting off the desks. 

“This is a stealth rescue, Quinn. If these henchmen see us, they will kill the whole department,” Batman warns. “Understood?” 

Harley sighs. She nods. Stealth’s not her favorite way to do things. 

Batman opens the door. _Eeeerheeeee._ The longest screech Harley’s ever heard. Jim and his squad are tied in a circle, backs against one another, near the back of the room, near the windows. The goons, all clad in assorted masks, sit in a cluster next to the watercooler, watching _Tawny_. Catwoman’s been spotted with some D-list Deadpool lookalike. Their weapons lay unattended on Jim’s desk, just behind them. All eyes fall on Harley and Batman as they lurk in the doorway. 

“Can I do it my way now?” Harley asks, not really waiting for Batman to answer. She scoots past him and slides across a desk to reach the goons. She swipes a stapler and launches it with straight precision, smashing in goon larynx. 

Batman lobs a smoke pellet into the goon circle before any of them can make it to Jim’s desk. Harley can’t see a damn thing, but she makes quick work of three goons, knocking kneecaps and bashing clavicles. 

A hench yelps, “Owww, my coccyx!” He applies pressure on his tailbone and beelines for the door, chest puffed. Fuck your crew, right? Three more goons follow suit and scurry out the door like roaches. 

Jim busts out of his restraints and draws his gun on Harley. “We’ve got ya,” he says, the mustache preceding his whiskey-stained teeth. 

“Whoa, Gordo,” Harley says, slinging her bat over her shoulder. “Batman, call your dogs off.” 

Batman shoots his batclaw at a goon’s back and yanks him close, ignoring everyone and everything else. 

He knows how to leave a girl hangin’. Harley takes a deep breath and rattles off a quick recap. “. . .And I kissed Ivy and I can’t look her in the eye, but I still have to plan her bachelorette thing. Batman and I are working together and Clayface is supposed to be here, but I think he stopped at the vending machine for those garlic shrimp chips.” 

A masked goon comes crashing from the ceiling and lands behind Jim. Harley lunges forward, tackling the goon to the floor and skidding a few feet. He’d be ripe for questioning, but his noggin cracks like an egg. His eyes roll into his head. “Fuck,” Harley says to herself. 

“We can’t let them get away,” Batman says, too low on the ante. Harley races Batman down the stairwell, but it’s rigged. He descends on a nearly invisible rope, and she flings herself over the railing, hopping from one to another, all the way down. Jim trails far behind, chugging down the stairs. 

Batman splits off to the right after the goon with the Jim Carrey mask. Harley bursts into the street to the left, scooting around the corner and into the alleyway, after the goon with an extremely accurate Jenny McCarthy mask. He sends a trashcan at her like a murder disk, and it crashes into her chest. 

“Aghhh! Right in the tits,” she says, flinching. The goon, surprisingly limber, climbs up a fire escape and flips himself onto someone’s dirty ass balcony. Dust encases a singular blue Adirondack with a white cat in it. It scampers through the window. The goon dives after it. This is cake for Harley. She swings up to the balcony in a series of fluid flips. 

Miraculously, nobody is home. The apartment’s interior design is mostly hideous. It looks like an old lady lives here and knits on the chair with the rolled arms. There’s a terrarium shaped like a fox that she knows Ivy will love. Harley pulls her phone out and snaps a pic. The goon lands a kick square in her solar plexus—but not before she can catch it and crank his leg back like a lever. Her phone clatters to the ground. 

_Fuck the bat_. Harley backhands the goon. His Jenny McCarthy mask fissures down the middle as he hits the paneled floor. “Vaccinate your kids, bitch!” She stands over him with her bat at his throat. “What the hell is Black Mask up to?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He snickers at her and his eyes dart behind her and to the right. 

_Clank!_ A metal folding chair meets Harley’s spine and puts the music in her vertebrae. The old woman living here is home, just slow to react. Harley is squashed on the floor like a bug. The goon flies out another window. 

“You’re Harley fucking Quinn,” the lady remarks, her liver spots popping in the sunlight. She lifts the chair over her head, ready to flatten Harley. 

Harley crawl-runs towards the window past the lady, her head whirring with stars, skinning her elbows and knees against the brick wall as she makes her way down. No goon in sight.

She spots Batman gliding above her, across rooftops. “Hey, can I get a lift?” 

Batman pulls her up to the rooftop and they crunch in the gravel. “My hench got away.” 

Harley and Batman reach the edge of the roof and she looks down the alleyway of that new Thai restaurant that only serves food out of pineapples. At the end of the alley is a green dumpster. And Black Mask sitting atop it. Very out of character for him. He converses with the goon Harley was chasing. Harley presses her hand against Batman to alert him and points down. 

“What riches have you brought forth, hench?” Black Mask asks, with too much spit on the 'hench.' 

“Nothing yet, boss. But Harley Quinn is around here. And so is Batman. I think they’re working together.” 

“The BatMAN? And Harley Quinn? You may very well win the tournament, if you capture them,” Black Mask says, waving his index finger. 

The goon’s face brightens. “The whole tournament if I bring either of them to ya? So, are we not doing the masquerade party? I mean, boss, I had a whole costume and a mask custom made to fit my narrow-set face.” 

“Masquerade party? Oh, I do love them. A perfect place to disappear into character. To push your boundaries. Like moving past Christian Bale in _Batman Begins_ to Christian Bale in _Vice_.” Black Mask’s face starts to warble. “Speaking of place, where and when exactly is it? Only a true hench would know.”

The goon doesn’t hesitate. “The Gotham Diamond, tomorrow night.” 

Black Mask morphs into Clayface. He grows two spiked hands and claps the goon to a pulp. Harley and Batman divebomb down. 

Clayface sprouts beautifully mascaraed lashes and clasps his hands together. “MmHMmHmMM, we're going to a masquerade party! I’ll make an appearance as Vacuous Vicky, with a sassy platinum bob and a privileged upbringing in—” 

“No, you’ll be going as a lowkey goon,” Harley says, nipping the idea in the bud. 

“Ah, then I’ll go as Jeffrey. A troubled young man who drank his way through Sigma Alpha Epsilon parties and dropped out of college to be a screenwriter for arthouse horror films about millipedes. And then he became a goon.” 

“Sounds great,” Harley says, curtly. “Frat goon, though? Don’t ya think it’s a little derivative?” 

Jim lurches into the alley, sweat-faced, choking on air. “Jesus, what did I miss?” 

“We’re going to Black Mask’s masquerade party,” Batman says. Not even slightly excited.

“Oh, finally. Some partner time, together.” Jim grins. 

Batman pauses. “Uh, Jim. I need you to monitor the party. From a distance.” He pats Jim’s shoulder as if it’ll make up for ditching his partner again. 

“Can I drive the Batmobile?” 

“No.” 

“Fine, how about the grapple gun?” 

“Jim, not now.” Batman clicks through his phone. Harley peeks over his shoulder, on her tippy toes. He’s typing and re-typing a text message to Catwoman. He erases it. 

Jim throws a fit. “You’re working with the leftovers of Arkham, why can’t you take me gliding for happy hour?”

Harley slouches. _I thought gliding was our thing. Is nothing sacred anymore?_ But it’s not the time to pout. It’s time to find an outfit for this damn party.

x o x o

Batman has a shockingly large and exquisite wardrobe. _For what, though?_ Harley snaps pictures of the rolling red velvet carpet leading to the black marble shelves lined with layers and layers of shoes, heels, boots, ties, scarves, everything. The whole room is a closet, each side brimming with tuxedos, suits, dresses, jumpsuits, skirts, and shirts. She decides against sending the picture to Ivy and instead sends her the picture of the fox-shaped succulent pot. 

**Harley:** We should totally go! Saw this on my way out of someone’s apartment, what do you think?

 **Ivy:** Why were you in someone’s apartment??

 **Harley:** It’s a long story

**Ivy:** Lmao okay. I do like it, though

**Ivy:** hey Chuck wants you to be at my dress fitting because he’s all traditional about that shit

 **Harley:** Only if I can choose bridesmaids’ dresses ;p

She doesn’t want to go dress-fitting, but she will for Ivy. Clayface snaps at her, in character, as a nondescript goon. He’s got chestnut hair, with bangs cut against a ruler, and a nose as bulbous and bumpy as a lemon. He looks like a rough Julius Caesar. “Harley, I’ve chosen a few choices for you. You’re going for an ‘I’m pining after my best friend and avoiding my true feelings,’ look, yes?” 

Harley rolls her eyes. She knows this is going to turn into a makeover montage. Not that she needs a makeover—she _knows_ the effect she has on people. Who isn’t at least intrigued by an insane bleached blonde in booty shorts? 

Batman stands rigidly next to Clayface, against the brogue shelf. Harley starts with a black and red dress, split down the middle. Too on the nose. She jumps out in a silver sequin dress, and shimmies, catching the light like scales. She twirls around in a forest green off-the-shoulder dress with a giant chiffon fish on the collarbone. It’s not right for her, but it would look amazing on Ivy. The next outfit is equally ridiculous. It’s an orange Arkham Asylum jumpsuit with clunky fishing boots. Odd. 

She burns through the rack and starts to wonder if Clayface is just fucking with her. But, like a cliché, the last outfit is _the one_. It’s an outfit to end all other outfits. She wants to wear it like battle armor, and she wants to wear it like she’s thrown away her wardrobe.

Harley steps out in a shoulder-less crimson jumpsuit, with a V-neck slicing just above her bellybutton. Her bra cuts perpendicular. The wide legs accentuate her waist and follow the curve into her waist. The gauzy fabric is just a whisper away from revealing everything underneath there.

She turns. “Huh? Whaddaya think?” 

“It’s, uhm, nice,” Batman says. “Very nice.” 

Clayface smiles with all his teeth. “Only you could wear it.” 

Batman coughs. “Well, actually, Catwoman wore it. Once.” 

Harley and Clayface hang onto the awkward pause pooling in the air. “Okay, well, you can forget about her. She’s clearly moved on. I’m wearing this shit now,” Harley says, checking herself out in the mirror at the end of the long room. “Ugh, do you have pasties for this? I can’t wear a bra with this.” 

Batman sure as hell doesn’t have pasties. Neither does Clayface, on his person, least. Harley wishes Ivy were here—she would’ve had pasties in her bag. And boob tape. Harley chuckles to herself when she thinks about how Ivy carries a mini sewing kit with her, too. After that time they went clubbing and Ivy ripped her pants right down the front, a window to her cactus-patterned underwear, she never went without a sewing kit again. Good times. Harley pushes the memory away. 

x o x o

Harley zhuzhes her hair in the mirror, which is curled and parted down the middle. She’s covered the pink and blue ends with a magical blonde dye. Cartoon hair products transcend the shit at Walgreens. She’s bathed in foundation and concealer just a jingle away from ivory. Her lips are an everlasting shade of bing cherry. She tapes the jumpsuit to her boobs and makes sure they’re out of the line of fire and lounges on the blood-red loveseat next to the mirror. 

She scrolls through Instagram impatiently, waiting for Batman. There’s Ivy and Kiteman on a story, watching _Killing Eve_ and eating quesadillas on the couch. There’s King Shark and Tabitha, at a tense family dinner where someone says something racist. Even Catwoman’s posting about her new squeeze, their legs dangling off some poor bastard’s windowsill. 

Batman appears at the entrance of the wardrobe room, in a black tuxedo and bowtie over his suit. His cowl remains. 

“No mask?” Harley asks. 

He straps a mask on, an expressionless white mask. He retracts his spikey Bat ears. Harley swears he seized the mask from Anarky. 

They take a 2002 Lexus sedan, which gulps over all the bumps and cracks in Gotham. Harley, of course, asks to take the wheel, but Batman says rebuffs her, again. The Gotham Diamond sparkles into the sky. It’s as tall as Wayne Tower and the front is popping with seedy black Lincoln sedans. The party has begun. 

Harley slips on a Cheetah mask that only spans her upper face and takes Batman’s arm. The double bass radiating from the ballroom thumps under her heels. The quartet is playing something that sounds like a pop cover, but Harley doesn’t know it. She holds her breath and enters the room on Batman’s arm. 

The room is swimming with dancing goons and henches, all dressed in suits or tuxes, masked, and swinging their dates around. There are some female goons in formal dresses and suits, but Harley can count them on one hand. Everyone’s shoes click on the wooden floor, like a broken metronome. Spotlights shine from the ceiling, like bopping polka-dots. There are round tables, clustered in the front of the room, off to the left of the stage, where the quartet plays. Black cloth drapes over the roundtables and buckets of champagne and roses populate them. Harley and Batman slip through the bumping crowd, to a table littered with half-eaten plates of salad. She takes a seat. 

“You wait here and keep an eye out for Black Mask,” Batman instructs. “I’ll go place the cameras, so Jim can see us.” He slithers through the crowd and disappears. 

Harley pops a bottle of champagne and downs it, foam dripping down her chin. She dabs at her chin, careful not to smear off her makeup. And then she looks up. She trails the stream of light glittering upon a couple, swaying in the middle of the room. Both wearing coordinating green masks just below the nose. Harley knows them. Harley knows _her_. 

“Wow,” Harley utters.


	4. gloves off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley Quinn, Batman, and Clayface undercover at Black Mask's masquerade party. And some unexpected green guests. Dancing, drinking, and some discoveries about the tournament and Harley's feelings unravel. Need I say more??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all like!

CHAPTER 4 – gloves off

Harley needs a moment to take it all in. To feast her eyes, so to speak. She’s not into objectifying anyone but she’s still got eyes. Ivy’s in a black dress that’s so wispy it’s fairy-like. It’s got a plunging neckline and the hem sweeps the ballroom floor. Ivy’s green leg pokes out of a slit cutting up to her thigh.

 _Goddamn it. She knows I love a thigh slit!_ Harley didn’t know what a snack was until now. Kiteman’s wearing a black tux with a green vine fixed to his chest. Both of their masks are plain and elegant. They spin in circles, hand in hand, solely focused on one another. _Ugh, I guess those dance lessons paid off for him._ Harley wills herself to look away. She’s here now with Batman, on an important mission, and Ivy’s clearly moved on. _Ivy wants to move on. She said moving on would be what’s best._ Harley scans the room for Black Mask. 

A man in an eclectic grey windowpane suit grabs Harley by the shoulders. “There you are!” Light brown bangs hang over the Handsome Squidward mask. 

“Jeez, Clayface,” Harley says, sighing. “I was ready to blow my cover.” 

“Where is—” He stops and whispers. “The BatMAN?” 

“He’s somewhere around here.” Harley peeks over Clayface’s shoulder, ogling the lace design on the back of Ivy’s dress. “But where is Black Mask?” 

“I saw him disappear behind stage, after we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Huey. He was kicked out of the tournament, sadly, because Gustavo reported him for stealing from their stepmother. She was married to Huey’s father before leaving him for Gustavo’s father, who turned out to be a man of virtue but also lives in the woods and grows shrooms. Very complicated family dynamics.” Clayface fiddles with his horrendous bangs. 

Harley deadpans him. “Clayface. Where is he?” 

“There’s a hidden door behind the violinist.” He points past the commotion and to the violinist, his red beard tucked into his white shirt. Behind the violinist is a leafy bamboo plant. One leaf points to a door, perfectly in-line, and blended in with the striped wallpaper. There’s no doorknob. Harley decides to lay low for now. It’s too early to make a scene. 

“Dance with me,” Harley says, springing to her feet. 

Clayface indulges her for a second, turning her a few times before letting her go. The caterers roll in the dessert cart. “Ooh, look! Trader Giotto’s Tiramisu!” 

“Wait,” she urges, “you can’t leave me hangin’, come on—”

“But there’s tira-mi-SU, Harley. You know I can’t resist,” he says, foaming at the mouth. 

“This is the _third_ time you’ve ditched me for dessert, Clayface.” 

He scoots off to the front of the room, in hot pursuit. 

Harley groans. This is why she only goes clubbing with Ivy. She would never ditch Harley for the dessert tray. Well, mostly. She knows Ivy can’t help herself around key lime pie. The spotlight swings off Ivy and Kiteman, but Harley’s still hooked. She and Ivy would’ve gone clubbing on a Friday night like this, bumping up on each other, getting blotto on cheap shots. But she and Ivy have never held each other at a distance, like this. They would talk about their deepest fears and their mutual hatred of low-cut underwear, but now there’s another dimension to think about. The feelings. That too-long-of-a-pause after their kiss. The profound fear in Ivy’s eyes. The way she held onto Harley, her fingers on the nape of her neck. There’s something there, but Harley can’t face it without Ivy. She _can’t_ tear her eyes from Ivy and Kiteman, careless as ever. So, there she stands, champagne in hand, jaw clenched. 

Someone takes her by the hand and pulls her against him. It’s all so smooth.

“Stop staring, Harley,” Batman says, a departure from the usual ‘Quinn.’ 

“I wasn’t staring.” 

“Even if you were, she’s not staring back at you.” He leads, pushing her back three steps. He’s a damn good dancer. 

She holds him close and turns, taking him with her. “What’s got your batnuts in a bunch?” 

“Nothing. Have you seen Black Mask?” He smells of whiskey. A true dad move. She lurches back at the thought of Batman downing his sorrows. They sway nearer to the middle of the room, edging closer to Ivy and Kiteman. Harley’s ultra-competitive spirit races through her spine. 

“No, but he’s somewhere back there.” She gestures with her eyes. “Is this about Catwoman and that guy, Red Tool?” 

Batman’s white Anarky mask gapes back at her, emotionless.

“He’s a dickhead. I think he had a thing for me, but he was just so desperate it was gross.” She exhales when he dips her, abruptly. 

“Is that so?” He sidesteps with her. 

“You tell me, _Batman_.” Harley blinks feverishly. Ivy’s glaring straight at her, over Kiteman’s shoulder, her hands claw into his shoulders. Harley looks away. Maybe she doesn’t recognize her? 

“I’ve got bigger things to worry about,” he grumbles. “I’ve moved on.” 

Harley parrots him, absentmindedly. Ivy’s mouth scrunches up, as tense as a crab. She recognizes Harley. 

“…And even though she’s stealing jewels with Red Tool, I know he’ll get caught eventually and maybe she’ll come to her senses.” Batman’s head droops down, angstier than _The Dark Knight_. He sounds ridiculous. 

She feels bad for him, momentarily. He must be so lonely, day in and day out, washed in the blue tinge of his Batcomputer. His Bat ears stand comically above the white mask, a costume too ballsy for anyone to believe. Harley directs Batman in a turn, matching his exact and disciplined footwork. 

“You’re obviously hung up about her, Bats. But it’s not like I can judge you.” She’s relieved to finally admit it, to say it out loud. Ivy looks away. A half-smile lingers on Harley’s face. She’s watching. 

“You need to reel Clayface in. He’s gonna blow his cover,” Batman interjects. He lets go of Harley. Balls-deep in the dessert table, Clayface passionately devours banana-colored macarons, his mask over his head. He chats to a fellow goon, both tickled pink with sugar. The goon keeps motioning over his shoulder, to the stage. 

In a quickly developing trend for the night, someone snatches Harley’s upper arm and hauls her through the hopping goons. 

Ivy. She leads Harley into the hallway, out of the ballroom. Too much foot traffic here. They end up in the storage closet across from the ballroom. There’s a cheese-yellow mop bucket in the corner, next to the ugly metal shelves. The room is chock-full of 1-ply toilet paper and Windex. 

“What _the hell_ are you doing?” Ivy growls. She takes her mask off. Punch-colored imprints line her cheeks and forehead. “And ohmygod, that’s a lot of foundation.” 

Harley unclips her mask and scoffs. “I’m here on a job, Ive.” 

“With Batman?” 

“How do you know it’s him?” 

“His ears are the size of fucking Texas,” Ivy gripes. “Okay, but that’s beside the point. Why are you with him?” 

“We’re working together. Look, I’m fixing my messes, just like you said I should.” Harley takes Ivy’s hands as if it’s a sufficient answer. 

“Again, my question stands. With Batman?” 

Harley tries to answer but she homes in on Ivy’s chest. “Hooo, sidebar: you put glitter on your boobs? You know, I really tried to pull off a body shimmer in 2017 but I ended up looking like Edward Cullen.” The glitter on Ivy’s chest sparkles. Harley regrets the pedestrian comparison. 

“Harls!” Ivy pokes two fingers at her eyes and then at Harley’s. “So, what, you’re shutting me out, now? You could’ve called me for help. I thought—” Her voice simmers to a breath. “I thought you were cool after we—you know. I thought we were good.” 

“We’re _so_ good. We’re good.” Harley beams sheepishly, like a child who’s just been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

“Also, this is such a good look for you, dude,” Ivy says, nodding at the crimson color choice. 

“Thanks. You have no idea how much boob tape went into the making,” Harley says, patting down the tape against her chest, wrinkling the fabric of her jumpsuit. Crimson really is her color. 

The door handle cricks and starts to turn. _Shit!_ To have gone through this much trouble with Batman and to get made? Hell, no. Harley’s eyes dart around the storage room. She’s got choices to make: kill whoever comes in, even if it’s Dylan McDermott, or knock them out, but then they’ll definitely remember Ivy’s green skin. Tonight’s not a killing night. 

In a panic, Harley flings the mop bucket against the door, revealing a square door in the wall, big enough to fit a grown man, but small enough to keep big guys like Batman out. It’s propped open with an empty can of detergent. With undeniable poise and strength, she handles Ivy by the shoulders, stuffing her into the door without thinking. Harley pushes in after her, closing the square door. It closes, blending back in with the wall. Whoever’s out there will never know where to look. 

“Jesus, Harley, if there’s anything we’ve learned, it’s that we shouldn’t climb into undisclosed pits or holes,” Ivy says, crawling forward through the wall tunnel. 

Harley does her best to respect the view as she follows Ivy. “Listen, I’m just here to find out what the fuck Black Mask is up to. Wait a second. Why are you and Kiteman here?” 

“Oh-uhm. One of Kiteman’s friends invited him to this thing. I don’t know who, exactly.” 

Harley’s stomach sinks like a rock. As if Ivy is here for her. 

They reach an opening, which is a hollowed-out furnace closet. There’s a hole that an oiled-mouse can slide through at eye-level. Convenient. Harley squeezes in and Ivy presses up behind her, a squeeze so tight the oxygen dissolves around them. 

It’s a secret ramshackle room, with a naked concrete floor and baseboards peeling like a mummy. The lights swing and flicker above Black Mask. 

He crosses out names on a whiteboard and then tosses the marker over his shoulder. _That’s gotta be him._ His mask, fused to his jaw, pulling up his neck skin. His black suit and bow are impeccably tailored to his knobby shoulders. Something drips from the ceiling and onto his shoulders. Harley shrinks back in anticipation, and Ivy’s hair cascades on her shoulders. 

“What the hell?” Black Mask looks up at the ceiling. Blood rolls between his eyes. And then the ceiling above him crumbles. A body _thuds_. His head is the size of a pumpkin. 

Black Mask yelps, flailing under the limp potato-sack of a body, scraping his heels against the floor. He shoves the body off and rushes back on his ass, frantically searching for a weapon. His guns aren’t holstered. Harley doesn’t see them anywhere. The room is void of any furniture, except the goddamn whiteboard. 

The body’s head snaps up, gasps, and begins to claw its way toward Black Mask. Harley clasps onto Ivy’s thighs, her fingers rubbing against the fabric of her dress. She mutters a “sorry” into the air. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Black Mask, says, leaning forward to get a better look. “ _Steve?_ Is that _you_? 

Steve stumbles forward, one foot after the other, as heavy as a butchered pig. “The hell did you do to me? Huh?!” 

Black Mask inches back, creating distance. “Wow, it really fucking worked, didn’t it? You look like ass, though.” 

Steve’s head is lumpy and sickly like hummus, throbbing severely. His hands and legs glob and squish. “You gotta change me back, boss. You gotta—” He reaches out to fall against Black Mask. 

“Hate to break it to ya,” he says, jabbing Steve with a hand-held knife. “There’s no changing back. For now.” 

Harley flexes her stomach, violently wishing to puke. “Let’s get the fuck outta here, Ive.” She cannot comprehend what she’s just witnessed. 

They sneak back into the ballroom, back undercover, where the quartet has started playing some up-tempo songs. Clayface and Kiteman greet them with glasses of champagne, at the dessert table. 

“Ivy! When did you decide to come along?” 

“Do I know you?” Ivy refuses the champagne. “Babe, is this your friend?” 

Clayface tilts his Handsome Squidward mask to the right and flicks his bangs. “You know, a true acToOOR commits to a role, even if it requires Courtney Cox’s _Scream_ bangs.” 

Ivy takes the champagne. “Oh, hey, Clay. At the time she didn’t know they were TERF bangs—but she did recover for _Cougartown._ ” 

Kiteman swoops in with jazz hands. “Beehb, I talked to my boys and we got a lil’ heisterooni planned for next Satch. We were thinking the Amazon HQ or maybe the Wayne tower in the Arkkkk?” He thinks aloud. There’s buttercream frosting on the edge of his mask. 

Harley chugs her champagne, and thumbs Batman over her shoulder, downcast in his white mask. “I’ll see ya later, Ive. Hi, Kiteman.” 

Kiteman shoots finger guns at her. “Hoo-hoo, have you had the vino with bubs?” 

Ivy staggers between Kiteman and Harley, stammering. “We’re not done talking,” she says, taking Harley’s hand in a tight two-step. 

They’re pressed, chest-to-chest. No one’s leading. But no one’s following either. 

“Look. I guess I’m just hurt you didn’t come to me for help, and now you’re running around with Batman, which never ends well,” Ivy says, dipping Harley with the softness of a lamb’s ear. 

Harley crushes Ivy’s hand in an iron-fist grip and pulls herself up. “We made a deal.” She resists the urge to breathe in the scent of Ivy’s hair. But it does smell nice, like lavender. 

Ivy boosts forward, incrementally, as certain as a looming wave. She’s so close Harley can feel her voice caress her ear. “Harls, we kissed. We shouldn’t have, but we did. And now, you’re being weird about it.” 

Mustering an untouchable resolve, Harley charges, measuredly. Like a knife scraping the excess of a cup. “Because I’m working with Batman? This does _not_ pass the Bechdel test. Do you have beef with Batman that I don’t know about?” 

Ivy spins Harley around. 

“No. No, of course not,” Ivy says, eating her words. She eyes Harley’s deep cut v-neck. “Your tape’s coming off, Harls.” 

Harley ignores her distraction. “I’m happy for you and Kiteman—I mean, I’m the one planning your bachelorette party, right?” Harley mostly believes that statement.

Ivy breaks with a half-smile, to Harley's surprise. She wants Ivy to push back, but she's given up. None of it feels convincing, though. She lets go of Harley, her hands going limp. Ivy parts, holding onto Kiteman’s forearm with conviction. They abruptly slither through the crowd, making for the exit. 

Harley wants to go after Ivy, but now’s not the time. She turns her back on Ivy. Black Mask dims the lights and calls on the quartet to quiet down. Dried blood mars his mask and suit. 

Batman stands next to Harley. “Where’ve you been?” 

“A wall tunnel.” That doesn’t explain much. “Long story short: Black Mask is running experiments on some goons, and they’re looking real fucked up. I’m not talking Bradley Cooper _Elephant Man_ ; I’m talking Anthony Hopkins.” 

Before Batman can answer, Black Mask boots the double bassist off-stage. “Boys! You know what time it is.” He downs a couple of flutes of champagne and chucks them like curveballs into the air. Alcohol doves. “Most of you made the cut, barely.” 

Murmurs sweep the room. Harley scans the room for goons who are actively decomposing and bubbling like Steve. None yet. She’s not even sure _they_ know what’s going on back there. 

“Imagine my disappointment when I set a whole army of henchmen and goons loose in Gotham, only to find out that Batman and Harley Quinn haven’t been captured yet. In fact, none of you even know where the hell _either_ of them are.” 

One goon raises his hand. “I heard they’re working together.” 

Harley hardens like peanut brittle. She can feel the heat of eyes on her. Batman peeks around. 

“And yet, here you stand, feckless.” Black Mask pulls a pistol from his holster and fires a killing shot into the goon’s left eye. He tips over, quietly. The room buzzes with fear. “I have plans for those of you who did not make the cut for round 3.” 

Panels from the ceiling drop, spotted across the room, and crane arms pull various goons up by the scruff of their collars. Other goons scramble out of the way, shoving their way around. Clayface shoves the last of the tiramisu into his mouth, his Handsome Squidward mask on someone else. About thirty goons are taken. Harley stays as still as possible. As if it makes her invisible. A shockwave of gulps shivers through the room. 

“As for the rest of you,” Black Mask says, crunching down on celery from his pocket. No ranch. Harley shudders. “Round 3 begins now, and I want Harley Quinn and Batman captured. _Dead or alive_. But I prefer them alive because we all know I love a hearty torture sesh. Bring home the bacon, boys, and you stay alive!” 

He slams the mic to the ground, and the feedback clips forcefully. He fades into his secret room. The goons disperse like rats on the train, scurrying and lashing at each other to get a head start. Harley watches Clayface drown in the swarm. Batman reaches for Harley’s wrist, teetering. 

“I’m gonna need you to drive, Harley,” he says.


	5. tectonic rift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Masquerade Party. There's angst. There's drama. There's heat. Harley and Batman continue to follow Black Mask's trail of robberies--and increasingly bizarre targets. They nearly figure out what Black Mask is up to. And they lean on each other, perhaps too much, in their times of loneliness and heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grab some snacks and read in the privacy of your room. and turn your fan on. you're gonna need to cool off after what happens in this chapter ;) 
> 
> some of you are gonna hate me for this chapter--but only for a while.

CHAPTER 5 – tectonic rift

This is the one and only time Batman will ever ask Harley to drive and she has to drive the rickety ’02 Lexus. It’s a car that looks like it belongs to an active drug dealer. The ride home is mostly uneventful, but Harley knows she probably shouldn’t have driven, belching champagne bubbles into her forearm with every pothole and speed bump. She lurches on left turns, daring the car to tip over. Though she doesn’t possess the best manual transmission control, it’s enough for a thrilling and scary time. _Will we eat shit or won’t we?_ Batman warbles and flattens his face against the window and Harley drifts through Gotham.

She enters a shaft, filled with darkness, that inevitably leads to the Batcave. She still doesn’t really know where it’s located. She hauls Batman from the passenger side of the car and heaves his body over her shoulders, like an unruly pool noodle. _Jesus! I can feel my fucking spine getting squashed._

“Harley, I can make it in. You can put me down,” Batman says, mask clattering to the cave floor.

“Ooh—kay.” She drops him like a sack of potatoes and straightens up.

He swallows a grunt as he hits the floor.

By now, Harley’s seen the trending Twitter hashtag in Gotham: #RatwomanRaidsGC. Ratwoman? What an embarrassing, out-of-character relationship portmanteau for Catwoman. No wonder Batman’s swimming in whiskey. Red Tool vs. Batman? Not even a competition. But Harley respects Catwoman too much. There’s a method to her feline madness. Maybe she wants a mindless fling?

In the main room with the Batcomputer, Batman mopes to a sturdy cave table crammed with files and sits. Clearly, he’s been on Twitter.

Harley chains paperclips together and twiddles her thumbs. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“We need to find out what kind of experiments Black Mask is running. And why.” He pulls up a hologram from his arm, scrolling through Roman Sionis’ profile.

She’s surprised how clean his diction is, but he is sweating booze. “So, it doesn’t bother you at all that #Ratwoman is trending on Twitter?” Harley pulls her phone from her jumpsuit. “Oh, she just made off with the Zacharias Diamond necklace. That b. is a whole mood.”

“No, it doesn’t bother me. She’s her own person, even if she is going out with a tool named Red Tool.” Batman’s hologram glitches and powers off. He pulls his gloves off. “We need to find a way to get a biopsy sample of his henchmen test subjects.”

“Your hands are so dry.” She stops herself from petting the scales of his hands. White powder is embedded in the branches of his hands. “You ever think about Lubriderm?”

“The chalk helps with my grip.” He turns his Bat eyes off. Now he’s just a man cosplaying. “What were you and Ivy up to?”

“Why do ya wanna know? Did you hear something? Did she say something?” She presses her jumpsuit to her chest again, but the boob tape has licked up so much lint, it ain’t sticking to anything. “N-not that I care. Because I’m totally over it.”

He reloads the Batarangs in his belt and forearm compartments. “She did say something about you—”

“Really? Did she say that she feels like—oh, never mind.” Harley sticks her tongue out at Batman. “Ha-ha. At least I’m not the one sloshing right now, cracking low-tier jokes."

“I don’t drink often.”

Harley sends a box of files flying off the cave desk and joins Batman, her legs dangling. She lends a hand, clasping his armored shoulder. They’ve commiserated enough for Harley to trust that he won’t throw her to the Arkham wolves.

“Guess it’s just time for us to rough it on our own,” she says. “Even if it is sad.” She flashes back to all the times she and Ivy pieced together cases or planned heists. At the mall, Burger King boxes and paper bags cover every surface. Ivy stands by those fries, but Harley still thinks McDonald’s takes the cake, there. They’d make mojitos, spitball theories, and then fall asleep on each other, her head in the crook of Ivy’s neck. Harley would never tell Ivy she drooled in her sleep, but she did, and on several occasions, on her. Harley would brush it off and let Ivy sleep in, slipping from under their sleep pile to make tea.

“I’m tired of roughing it on my own.” His neck hangs, Bat ears drooping, too. They have a mind of their own.

“Maybe it’s for the best, for now,” she says, like a question. She’s unsure of anything coming out of her mouth. Mostly, she just doesn’t enjoy sad, drunk Batman. It makes the concept of Batman too tragic.

He coughs, the sound of it like a train. “We still need to figure out what you saw. You said it was some kind of decomposing goon?”

“Hey, wait,” Harley says, reaching out to him. “I think we can call it a night.”

“There’s no time to waste.” Batman turns the Batcomputer on, and the blue light is as blinding and lonely as ever.

“Come here.” Harley pulls him into an embrace. He holds his arms out, above hers, rigid like glass. He doesn’t return the gesture. “I’m calling it a night, Bats.”  
“Harley,” Batman rumbles.

“Just. Come on. We’re having a moment.”

She squeezes his torso and rests her face against his chest, sure to imprint her cheek with the Batman symbol. He slackens, like rope, and puts his arms around Harley. His coarse hands weigh on her upper back, under her hair. Under the veil of whiskey, he smells like an expensive cologne. He’s warm and she doesn’t know when to let go. He’s tight around her, demanding as much pressure from her as he’s giving. Harley can feel her cheeks burning up. _Is this hug going on too long? If I let go now, will he be offended that I let go so soon? Or is he weirded out?_

Harley releases Batman. “Okay, well, I’m gonna turn in here. Good night, Batman.” She waves over her shoulder and dashes to the guest room. At this point, there’s no question she’s staying at the Batcave, indefinitely.

x o x o

The night gallops by and Harley sleeps like a bad road trip. Before long, it’s 8 AM and she’s scrolling through Instagram, hating her life. Bane’s busy blowing up burger joints for getting his order wrong, Dr. Psycho’s reposting meninist guru bullshit, King Shark is frolicking at the beach with Tabitha. And, of course, Ivy’s got a slew of fun and gorgeous stories up.

Ivy blows a raspberry at the camera and explains the magnificently colored trees crowding the frame. The tree bark looks like someone has painted effortless green, yellow, purple, and blue streaks up and down it. “So, yeah, these are rainbow eucalyptus trees, which aren’t native to Gotham—but now they are, here at Robinson Park. Yours, truly!”

Harley clicks through a couple more pictures on Ivy’s story. Kiteman’s in most of them, lounging in shorts and a tropical palm tree shirt, sipping from a coconut. Leaves reach out like arms in every corner of the pictures. So green. Another video plays, with Ivy panning all of Robinson Park, the beautiful wonderland it has become. There are colossal million-dollar houses with vines crashing through the windows as if they were plucking out its eyes. Her plants will devour them, eventually.

“So, we drove out all the rich gentrifying assholes and cordoned off a spot for people who’ve lived here for years and actually work for a living,” Ivy says, waving at a dad mowing his lawn, way across the park, barely visible through the greenery. To the pack of polo-wearing, pearl-clutching 10-percenters, Ivy shouts, “Get gentrified, biiiitch!”

The last picture in the story is a tied-up oil executive, bulging belly-down, with an apple in his flappy mouth. Ivy’s ankles dig into his back.

Sighing, Harley gives the story an obligatory heart and contemplates posting something. _Posting a haggard selfie? Really, Harley?_ She tries a couple of different angles, but it just looks like she’s trying to flash her boobs under the covers—which is totally on-brand but is not the mood she’s going for. She throws her phone off the bed and to the wayside, letting it land with a _glonk._

Half of Harley’s body slides over the bed, a cat stretch. Someone pounds at the door. Harley knows the cadence and the clumsiness of that knock.

“Quinn. I’ve made—breakfast—and coffee. Gordon has some new info for us,” Batman says, the timbre of his voice vibrating against the door.

“Yeah.” Harley shoots into her normal, ass-kicking gear. Booty shorts snapped on. Crop top snapped on. Converse sneakers strapped. She swings the door open.

“That was fast,” Batman says, nearly falling in. He’s wearing adorable slippers. The front of the slippers is bat heads.

There’s a round ash grey table in the middle of the main platform in the Batcave, in between the long table and the Batcomputer. Harley sits and digs into the cornucopia of waffles and bacon.

With waffles packed to the gills, she garbles. “You made all this?”

“No, Alf—” He chokes on his coffee. “Yep, all me.”

Harley doesn’t know what to say to Batman when they’re not actively talking about crime. He’s not exactly a conversationalist, but he looks like he wants to say something. Half a piece of bacon hangs from the corner of her mouth. She crunches it down and stares at him. “So, what’s Gordon—”

They interrupt each other and exchange a few bashful apologies. _You go first. No, you go first._

“I just wanted to ask if you had a good night’s sleep.” He slurps his coffee.

She hates that sound. Her shoulders scrunch to her ears. But she’s more taken aback by what the hell he’s asking. “Good, I guess?”

“Good.”

“What the hell does it have to do with Gordon?” She tries to catch his eyes, but he averts his gaze.

“Nothing,” he says, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “My therapist says I should ‘check-in’ with people. To open up, or something.”

“You’re seeing a therapist? Wouldn’t have pegged ya for that, Bats, but I’m proud of ya,” Harley says, clutching his forearm. She releases her grip on him, immediately, though. There’s thin tension hanging in the air. She would offer her professional guess on Batman’s psychological architecture, but she won’t. _That’s_ crossing a line with him.

Batman pulls up a hologram, and a video message from Jim plays:

“My department’s been tracking the slew of Black Mask goons robbing the city. At first, it was restricted to banks, credit unions, rich neighborhoods, influencer turfs, underground gambling rings, you know, the like. But now, they’ve started going haywire,” Jim says, rolling a chalkboard into the frame. It’s a poorly drawn map of Gotham, with a cluster of red dots concentrated in upper-class areas. Jim draws red X’s where the new incidents are happening. “Here, here, and here. That’s Gotham Community College—their football coach’s office. They hit Gotham General. And they’re hitting HOAs and town halls.”

“Taking the piss outta HOAs? Are you sure these aren’t the good guys?” Harley quips.

“Black Mask is taking on something else bigger than money,” Jim warns. “This isn’t just money, anymore.” He sounds too solemn, too serious, for chest-hair Gordon.

Another video plays. The film is grainy and green, in a blurry night vision. It looks like someone’s well-endowed house. The hallways are grand and wide. It follows Jim’s first-person account, moving decisively between rooms, gun drawn. A gagged Senator Jameson comes into view, in boxers, his belly bulging over the waistline. Black Mask is standing over him with a knife. He looks _wrong._

His mask is fused to his neck, sure, but half of it seems like it’s melting off, like wax. But maybe that’s a trick of the light or the film. His eyes grab the focus of the camera, glaring solely in the center. He’s not glaring, seething with anger. He’s steeped with pure fear. Harley feels her heart rush against her spine. The goon is suddenly more than a goon that looks like Black Mask. He’s human. He’s just a guy doing Black Mask’s bidding. And regretting every decision he’s ever made up to that point.

“P-please,” he whimpers, grasping for the camera, for Jim. His fingers, outstretched, disintegrate like sand, dripping at a frightening rate. “Help me.”

The goon tumbles to a glop at Jim’s feet, his head rolling to a putty, black mixing in with peachy skin. Jim’s men drag Senator Jameson away. The hologram ends, glitching, Jim blinking out.

“That was fucked up.” That’s all Harley can muster. Her mind is loose with imagination. At first, it’s almost certain Black Mask is after capital in Gotham. But now, she’s back at square one, groping around for any motive. If there is one.

Batman pulls up a diagram on the Batcomputer. It’s a blueprint of Gotham’s Hall of Justice, a round Grecian building bolstered by pillars. “This is where Jim says they are now. The camera feeds were replaced, and the security room was infiltrated last night. The building is being guarded from every angle, so the front door is not an option for us.” He strikes the Enter key. A series of green trails glow on the blueprint. “Here’s how we get in.”

x o x o

At this point, Harley needs to remind herself not to _swoon_ when Batman whips out an impossibly sophisticated gadget for his impeccably planned jobs. They decided to penetrate the Hall of Justice through a big ass underground tunnel that Batman carved with some controlled explosions. It’s shit like that that makes Harley bubbly. It’s how nonchalant and certain he is, chucking cute little bombs underground, spreading his cape around them as the dust settles.

The tunnel’s tall enough for Batman to stand, but not wide enough for breathing room between Harley and him. His arms tug along hers. The dirt all around her clogs her lungs. She hacks and coughs.

Ivy’s already texted Harley twice today.

**Ivy:** Chuck’s thinking either industrial or rustic for our wedding venue, but I kinda want a garden venue. Thoughts?

**Ivy:** maybe we can tour a few venues. When are you free from Batman? Ditch that brute LOL

_So, she’s just going to pretend like the masquerade party didn’t happen? What the hell was that?_ Harley stows her phone away. She’s exhausted by the push-and-pull of Ivy’s indecision. But she can’t say that she won’t wait for Ivy to figure her shit out. Even if it eats her alive. Not even _Survivor_ reruns can lift her out of her Ivy-daze. Not even Jeff Probst’s delectable dimples. When she’s not actively ramming through those pesky Buzzfeed listicles or working with Batman, she’s thinking about Ivy. No way around it.

The way through the tunnel isn’t too long, thank God. Harley meanders in limbo in the ham-handed conversations with Batman.

“Do you think Catwoman goes on capers like this?” Harley asks, elbowing Batman. She sees a split-second of grief cross his mouth.

“We should be focused on Black Mask, right now.”

“Oh, come on. You know you want to shit on her,” Harley bumps. She readies her bat over her shoulder as they reach a dead-end.

“There should be a grate buried in this wall.” Batman seizes clumps dirt and root and brushes free a rusty grate. The way in. He plucks the grate off with ease and gestures for Harley to go in first.

Harley crouches through an air duct, wondering whether to pull her booty shorts down or to just let it be. Ivy would tell her to get longer shorts, but Harley would complain that the jump between booty shorts and thigh-length shorts is sexy and Christian summer camp. Harley trusts the gentleman in Batman. But he’s still a human being with eyes. And she’s still Harley fucking Quinn.

Inside the Hall of Justice, the fluorescent lights hum and the room is absolutely silent. It’s nearly 10 AM. This is not normal. Harley and Batman tiptoe through a circular hallway, each segueing to city officials’ offices. All transparent, structured from that windowpane glass on school doors. Every office is dark. No lights. Not a semblance of life. _Are we too late? Did they kill every fucking person in here?_

A mass zooms by, out of an office, darting elsewhere. There’s nowhere to hide if they turn towards Harley. Batman captures Harley by the waist and grapples to the ceiling. They stick there for a moment. She hangs down, by the full control of his arm. The figure brandishes a bloody lead pipe, freshly splattered, and disappears. Batman drops down, along with Harley.

Harley’s trudges along, gingerly. At any moment, someone could attack her, spring through the office windows, or through the double doors that appear every ten feet on the opposite side of the hall. It feels like it’s closing in on her. A dull whirr of voices drums somewhere below them. A pitter-patter crescendos, knocking against the walls and the floor. Someone’s sprinting through the hall. Their footsteps click against the tile. A man tangles with Harley, head-first. His sweat trickles onto her forehead and she lurches back.

“Ow,” she groans, leaning against Batman.

“Batman! Please, please help me. They’ve been holding all of us hostage since last night,” the man begs, oozing sweat. He’s in his early thirties and his temple is plastered with blood. Harley connects the dots. Lead pipe.

“You’re Mayor Garcia’s son, Gary. Is your father here?” Batman asks.

Before he can answer, Gary lets go of Harley, suddenly realizing who she is. “Wait a second, you’re Harley Quinn. Why are you with Batman? Are you _really_ Batman?”

Harley shoves Gary off. “Where the hell is everyone else, Junior?”

Gary wipes his face with his sleeve, dragging his dark brown bowl-cut bangs with him. His raggedy breath stabilizes. “My dad isn’t here, b-but everyone else is.”

“Where are they?” Batman asks.

“They-they’re in the conference room and uh-uhm, Black Mask is here with an entourage.” Gary’s blue shirt is ripped, the buttons dangling by threads, and his grey slacks stained with blood, pus, and some delicious-looking aioli. His golden knuckles are blistered.

“Oh, is he?” Harley smirks. She bounces her bat in her hand. “He’s everywhere these days, isn’t he?”

Harley and Batman follow the man, deeper through the hall, further along the circular path. A pair of towering, metal doors await her, as heavy as a funeral. Harley guesses those are the conference room doors, but apparently not. Gary moves past them, and pushes a door open, at the presumable end of the circular hall. Inside, a flight of gum-stuck stairs juts down, descending into gradual darkness. One yellow light bulb hangs above Gary’s head. It’s not a functional lightbulb, the luminosity barely brushing the blotchy concrete walls.

“This is where the big wigs vote on bills? Down here?” A patch of gum with a heelprint on it stares back at Harley. She trails Gary into pitch blackness.

“They’re in there,” Gary whispers, trembling with dread, pulling forward. A tan paint-stripped door sits at the bottom of the stairs. “You need to be c-careful.” He pries the door open slightly, a sliver revealing all.

Harley peeks through, but before she can register everything, Gary throws the door wide open and gives her a kick in the ass. Gary charges through Batman, too. She and Batman nosedive into the rotunda, their arms and legs whacking against each other. Behind rows and rows of benches facing an austere dark wood podium, Black Mask waits. His masked goons pose, jutting out in wing formation on either side of him. The white walls are speckled with hostage blood and grime. None of Gotham’s officials are here.

Harley’s head pounds with stars as she springs to her feet. She hauls Batman to his feet, her hand iron-gripping his. “Goddamn it, Gary!” She snatches Gary by his collar, nearly ripping it off.

Between sobs, Gary sputters, “Th-they were bl-blackmailing me, please. Please don’t hurt me. They were gonna kill my dad if I didn’t work with them.” He squirms in Harley’s hold.

“What the fuck did you do for Black Mask to blackmail you? I mean, maybe you fucking deserved it, Gary,” Harley snarls.

“They’re paying me 400 million to run for mayor, against my dad, alright?” Gary overjoyed at the millions.

_Blackmailing, my ass._ Gary’s getting blackmailed about taking 400 million dollars from Black Mask to dethrone his dad as the mayor of Gotham. What a clusterfuck. He’s in Black Mask’s pockets.

Then Harley hears the _beep, beep, beepbeepbeep._

One of the goons aims a bazooka at her over his shoulder, pulling the trigger. Harley throws Gary into the line of fire and flips between benches. The bazooka doesn’t just shoot any old explosive. Gary freezes in a tangible bright red light, mid-air, hands balled up. His face warps, and grows, and then contorts, his eyes rolling into his head. He releases a scream, straight from the pits of his stomach as he hits the floor, his tongue flapping.

It’s an all-out fight now. Batman’s engaged in hand-to-hand combat with three goons, headbutting, and crushing their jaws with his fists. Black Mask pulls his guns and chases Harley with bullets, and she dives behind the benches, skinning her elbows to hell. Bullets rip through the wood, propelling splinters into her hands.

Another gaggle of goons hop and trip over the benches, each jerking at Harley’s arms and legs, pulling over the benches like a ragdoll, making their way to Black Mask. Harley kicks a goon off and gains her freedom, thwacking the goons like baseballs. She swings, dangerously, and pulverizes their faces, blending teeth into their cheeks. Gary runs towards her, his face seeping past his jaw, his eyeballs jiggling like egg yolks.

“What’s happening to me? My bones are breaking, my insides feel funny,” he cries. He attempts to hold his face together, gathering it in his hands. “My face…”

A bullet pierces his eyeball and it sprays on Harley’s shoulder. A storm of bullets blows past Harley. She hides her head between her legs, back against a bench. Black Mask aims at Batman, just ten feet away from her, in the same row of benches. Harley crawls at as fast as a horror-movie demon and tackles Batman at the waist, and something burns her arm. She lands on top of him, head buried in his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she mutters. She looks back at her arm, and it’s searing. There’s a chunk of flesh missing. Globs of blood spill down her bleached arm, smothering her arm hairs. She groans. This won’t heal fast enough. Her blood plops on Batman’s suit, pooling between his pecs. She climbs off him, bullets whizzing over her head.  
A goon dashes from the room, hugging the bazooka to his chest.

“We need to disarm him,” he says, reaching into his utility belt.

“Are we even sure that’s him?” Harley asks, staining her fingers with blood as she applies pressure to her left arm.

“No.” Batman whisks a sizable device from his belt, and it looks vaguely like a caulk gun. He shoots at both of Black Mask’s guns. Batman’s device is silent.

“Did that do anything?” Her bat clatters at her knees.

All she can hear now is clicking. _Clrip, clrip. Clkrip, clkrip, clkrip._ No gunshots. She pokes her head up from the benches. Black Mask spanks the butts of his guns against his palms. His guns are jammed.

Harley interrogates Batman. “How does that thing work and why didn’t you use it earlier?”

Batman sticks the disruptor back in his belt and shrugs. “Uh, Wayne Tech?” Almost like the disruptor came from a video game.

_Wayne._ Harley remembers the posters of Bruce Wayne in Black Mask’s first goon hideout. _The red-marker hearts around Bruce’s head._ Harley cartwheels through the benches and to the podium.

She knocks in Black Mask’s stomach with her bat. “That’s for shooting me, asshole,” she snaps. He smashes onto his back. She drives her bat into his Adam’s apple. “So, what would you say to a date with Bruce Wayne?”

Batman glides and docks next to Harley. “Why are you asking about Bruce Wayne? What does this have to do with him?”

Harley shushes Batman. She turns back to Black Mask. “Well?”

“I don’t want no date with that billionaire douchecanoe,” Black Mask says, spitting on her bat.

“That’s not Black Mask,” Harley concludes. The real Black Mask would’ve been thirsting for a date with Bruce Wayne. She lifts her bat over her head.

“Harley, wait!” Batman yells.

“You’re too late, anyway,” the imposter says. “We’re small fish.”

She clobbers the imposter’s face, cracking his mask, down the middle like an eggshell. And then, for good measure, she tromps him. A liquid pours from his head, like natural beige Neutrogena foundation.

The imposter cackles, the sound sibilating through the slosh of his pulped head. He thumbs a button on a handheld remote. The room quakes and Harley tries to keep her balance. Batman trips against her.

Then, a horrendous explosion.

The ceiling collapses and the walls implode, blasting in every direction. Flames surge through the room, launching the benches and shredding some of them. There’s barely any time to react.

Harley crams herself behind the podium, in the fetal position. She doesn’t know where Batman is. The flames bear down on her, roaring in her ears. She holds tight. The podium crushes her and wooden beams from the ceiling give way, leveling her.

“Harley.” Batman coughs into his arm, stamping out a flame near her head. He fans smoke away with a swift turn of his cape. He heaves the wooden beams off the podium, grunting. The burning metal in the room whines and groans. The room sways, daring Harley to escape. And it’s almost too late. The ceiling caves in. Harley can see the slabs of plaster, insulation, and wood buckling in on her vision. And then she can’t see anything. Blackness. She limpens.

“Whoa.” The fresh, humid air of Gotham rushes against her skin and imbues her with energy. She’s lucid. Batman hugs her tight and he flies through the city. His cape, tattered and full of holes, billowing in the wind. He grins at her.

x o x o

Harley’s legs dangle off Batman’s desk as she waits for him to get the rubbing alcohol and bandages. Boxes of files accompany her, in crooked stacks. Surprisingly, she emerged from the explosion without destroying her clothes. They are soot-dusted, though. Ivy texts Harley again.

**Ivy:** Hey. Hope you’re okay. Hope we’re okay. I just want to go back to being best friends, Harls. Can you do that for me?

Her thumbs tap her phone, but Harley can’t think of anything to say. Batman appears, medic kit in hand. Harley puts her phone down.

Batman opens the kit and sets aside a few cotton pads, butterfly tape, bandages, and a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol. He lifts Harley’s arm carefully, examining it. Then, he removes his gloves.

“You’ve healed a bit. Remarkably fast,” he says, brushing debris from her open wound. He soaks the cotton pads in alcohol and presses down. They sizzle against her. He clutches her arm.

Harley winces, inhaling loudly. “Buuuut that still hurts like a bitch.”

“Sorry.” He lets up.

“No, keep going. I don’t want to amputate my arm, _Requiem for a Dream_ style.” She shuts her eyes, readying herself. The alcohol stings. “Please, tell me after all that trouble, we got a sample of that Black Mask imposter freak.”

Batman tosses the blood-soaked cotton pads in the trash and flashes a test tube filled with tan goop at her. “Yep. No bazooka, though. They got away with it. They clearly don’t want us to figure out how it works.” He tapes her wound shut, smoothing down the tape on her white arm, his craggy fingers catching on her skin. He wraps her arm in a thin, compression bandage.

“But now we know Black Mask is scrambling goons’ faces with that thing. And he’s buying politicians. And Gary. Nothin’ new in Gotham.” Harley gazes at Batman’s face, which is solely trained on her arm.

“We’re getting to the bottom of it. I can feel it.” He looks up at her. “We work well together.”

“Mmh-hmm.” She breaks away, scooting off the table in a hurry. She’s not her loud and brash self suddenly.

“Harley,” Batman says.

She turns around.

“It’s nice not to be alone all the time.” He fiddles with the bandages. His boots point in, like a little schoolboy.

Harley can’t get a read on him. _Why is he saying this to me?_ The distance between them strums to a close. She can’t figure out what he means to say, but her instincts tell her what to do next. She lays her hands on his face. His Bat eyes buzz and dim.

Harley kisses Batman, her mind completely blank. He’s not pulling away. He kisses her back, driving against her. She’s messy. He’s rough. Her tongue slides against his. His hands take hold of her lower back. Her arms hang over his shoulders. This is so wrong. And no, it’s not right on any level. Harley splits from the kiss, her hands fan out against his chest.

“Wait,” she says. “What are we doing?” She’s mostly asking herself.

Batman hems. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, what the hell was that?” Harley laughs, carrying on too long. “I’m so impetuous. I just. Kiss people.”

“That was precarious,” he says, hissing on the sibilance. “Maybe we should get back to researching.”

“We should.”

“Yes,” he says, flatly.

Harley and Batman stand stick-straight, in front of each other. Chemical energy rattles her body. Her hands tremble. Her heartbeat catapults. She knows what she wants right now, right at this moment. And maybe, that’s the best thing she can do right now.

Harley shoves Batman into his black rolling chair, slinging him against the Batcomputer desk. On impact, he moans. She slings her fingerless gloves off. She annihilates him, unclipping his utility belt, prying off his armor from his chest, letting it clatter. She leaves the mask and boots. Underneath the exoskeleton, Batman’s in a black bodysuit. It is, without a doubt, spandex, just like Harley thought. She rips it apart, and he’s built like a tank, his body robust and industrial, abs packed in like cans, ready to feed the village.

Her strong legs coil around his torso as she sits on his lap. She slips out of her shorts, but leaves her top on, not bothering with it. Harley plants a kiss on him, wet and warm, running her thumb against his stubble. He clings to her hips and brings her down on him. Harley exhales.

Sure, there’s no foreplay, but Harley doesn’t do foreplay with just anyone. Foreplay is like eating the pickled ginger palette cleanser before trying another piece of sushi. She savors foreplay.

The chair creaks rhythmically as Harley rocks against Batman, clawing onto the desk to keep herself from toppling over _the cliff_. His breath is low and broken in her ear, punctuated by grunts. He’s suppressing it, but he can hardly stop himself from making sounds. She’s controlling every moment. Harley nearly strangles Batman’s body between her legs as the pace picks up, using her legs to thrust against him, pushing harder against him. The chair beats the desk. Harley stretches forward, her hands inadvertently smashing random buttons on the Batcomputer, on tempo. And goddamn it, she _needs_ tempo. This ain’t a slow song kind of moment.

The musical _dum-dum-dum_ of the Batcomputer turning on drowns out the sound of Harley's little eruption. See: a fork poking the perfect sunny-side-up egg yolks.

Harley hooks her arms around Batman’s shoulders, caressing his neck. She kisses him again, rubbing on him unhurriedly, the hotness of their mouths melding. He palms her hips, thumbs digging into the creases of her pelvis. She stops, abruptly. He doesn’t finish, but she’s done. It’s time for an early lunch. All this before noon on a Saturday.

Harley leaves Batman high and dry, walking away, shorts swinging from her finger, ass out on full display. Does she regret it yet?


	6. the mourning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley and Batman team up with Ivy and Clayface to figure out what Black Mask's goons are made of, all the while dealing with the repercussions of *that* hookup. Harley and Ivy end up checking out Mr. Freeze's ice castle and Batman and Clayface chase down Black Mask leads. The cold is almost too much for Harley and Ivy to handle--and they must work together to stay warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Harley/Ivy-centric chapter! That's really all I can say. Please enjoy!

CHAPTER 6 — the mourning after

Harley waits in the doorway. Batman leans against the opposite wall. She knocks again, just a little louder. Batman peers up and down the hall, in case anyone’s spotted him. 

She glances back at him. “This is definitely the right apartment, I think.” 

He pretends not to hear her, smoldering off to the right. 

That was the extent of yesterday after they crossed some lines, twisted them, and utterly erased them. And this morning. They had spent the morning trying to figure out what the Black Mask imposter goon was composed of—what his face had festered into. Batman ran part of the sample through his massive database of biochemical compounds as Harley hovered over his shoulder. They only spoke to each other when it pertained to food or Black Mask, and then Harley locked herself away in the guest room, replaying the things she’d just done _with_ Batman. 

“Just hang tight,” Harley nudges. She knocks on the apartment door again. She pulls her phone out and reluctantly scrolls through her message list.

The door opens.

“Babe, maintenance is here,” Ivy calls out, head turned away. She turns back, her eyebrows say it all. “Harley?” 

“Hey, Ive.” Harley waves, with one hand behind her back, bat strapped on. “We need your help.” 

“We?” Ivy opens the door fully and her mouth puckers at the sight of Batman. “Oh, no,” she says, smacking her forehead with her hand. “Harls, what the fuck did you do?”

Batman nods at Ivy. 

Harley and Batman follow Ivy into Kiteman’s apartment, which is barren with kites, kite diagrams, and kite paraphernalia. Harley makes herself at home, plopping down in a bar seat at the kitchen island. She pats the seat next to her for Batman. He drags the chair out, scraping against the tile, scooting it away from her, and doesn’t sit. They play a game of _are you looking at me because I’m not looking at you._

“I like this new look on you,” Harley says, twirling her finger at Ivy’s outfit. She’s wearing olive green joggers that cuff above her ankles, elongating her legs. She’s got a white tank underneath a forest green utility shirt. And the white elastic band of her briefs reads ‘COBB SQUAD,’ clinging to her hips. It’s a whole look. “You’re finally jumping on the joggers train, huh? I always said you’d look hot in them.” Understatement of the year. 

“Oh, this?” Ivy blushes. “Chuck suggested the joggers.” 

Harley’s insides sour at that. She tries her best to impose a shit-eating grin over her frown. It’s surreal to sit between the woman she’s falling in love with and the guy she just fucked out of sheer primal desire, and sadness. She musters up the courage to bury the weirdness, to lug the secrets she’s holding onto. 

“We went after one of Gordon’s leads, and it turns out, Black Mask is hitting politicians now. He has some kind of gun that either turns them into a Black Mask clone or fucks them up, like a jelly donut. But either way, they eventually end up decomposing,” Harley explains. “We collected a sample—” she holds her hand out.

Batman’s gloved hands meet hers, placing the test tube of goon in her hand. His face is emotionless, but the cast-iron stance that he’s taken radiates anxiety. 

“—of the goon after I split his head with a well-timed sashay.” Harley’s hand sweats and sticks to the test tube. 

Ivy’s eyes dart between Harley and Batman. 

“We have no idea what this stuff is, so we need the most smartest, most bangiest, most badass scientist to help us identify what Black Mask is doing to these goons,” Harley says, holding her hands in prayer. 

Ivy grabs the test tube from Harley. “All of those things are true, but I’m really a plant purist. Buuut, I’ll do it for you.” She pulls down a white microscope atop the bookshelves lining the bachelor pad living room. Empty bottles of Budweiser and two stacked bowls sit on the oak coffee table. 

Kiteman’s roommate strolls into the kitchen, emerging from the hall in a periwinkle polo and cargo shorts. He grabs a plastic container of guac from the fridge, eyeing Harley Quinn and Batman. “I’m gonna head out.” He slips out of the apartment. No chips.

Harley tucks her bottom lip behind her teeth and leans forward in her seat, balancing on the legs. Across the kitchen island, Ivy smears the goon material onto a glass slide with a popsicle stick and then fastens the slide into place under the microscope. 

“Can I help you?” Ivy asks, covering the eye rest with her green hand. She rumples her mouth to one side of her face. 

A giggle emanates from Harley’s body. She can’t help it. “I just like to watch you work.” For a moment, she forgets that Ivy has chosen Kiteman over her, time and time again. For a second, she’s convinced that Ivy doesn’t really want to marry Kiteman. But she’s been wrong a lotta times. That’s her whole thing. Making messes and mistakes.

Batman materializes a batarang from his sleeve when Kiteman wanders into the kitchen, in full gear. 

“Whooooaa,” Kiteman says, his voice creaking from the back of his throat. “Babe, did you plan Gotham’s Most Powerful: The Afterparty and not invite me?” He pecks Ivy on the cheek and wriggles into his gloves. He fades back from Batman, feigning a yelp. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were taking these hot young ladies out for a good time. But Kiteman is secure in himself. Go get ‘em, babe. Strong womanosity!” He pumps his fist. 

“ _Blech_ ,” Harley says, rolling her eyes. She knows Ivy hates it when she openly expresses disgust for the bare minimum Twitter material that Kiteman is, but Harley communicates in the only way she knows: unsubtly. “Womanosity, really? This does it for you?”

“Do you want anything while I’m out, Ivy Bo-Bivy? Fries? A shake?” He shoots finger guns back at her as he makes his way to the balcony door.

“No, you have fun out there, babe,” Ivy says, waving, without looking back at him. 

Kiteman leaps into flight out the window, kite springing. 

“Where’s he off to?” Batman asks.

“A heist,” Ivy says, dropping the bomb. She walks back on it. “And by heist, I mean an extremely thoughtful and long Shake Shack run.” 

Batman grumbles.

For a stretch of two long minutes, Ivy examines the goon material through the microscope and mutters to herself before clapping her hands together. “Okay, so, good news: I can tell you that this stuff has human DNA in it and that there’s a biological substance here that has traces of Mr. Freeze’s cryogenic DNA. The bad news is the rest is some other unidentifiable biological material. Like, I have never seen it before and have no fucking idea what it is.” 

“Okay, okay,” Harley says, skipping to her feet, getting that wild glint in her eye. “This is good. We’re making progress. So, maybe this will lead us where Black Mask is getting this face-changer thingy developed. Maybe we can stop him from making a better one.” 

Batman takes the test tube back and stuffs it into one of the many armor pockets on his leg. Men’s clothes _always_ have more room to store shit. This is just a fact. “He’s using Mr. Freeze’s DNA to stabilize the face-changer. So they don’t decompose so fast.”

“Speaking of Mr. Freeze, how is his DNA _not_ in your database?” Ivy asks. “I mean, isn’t that your whole thing, World’s Greatest Detective?”

“There are some kinks to work out with the new WayneOS update,” he says, gruffly. 

There’s a knock at the door.

In walks Clayface, making a grand entrance as himself. “Are we going to another party? Oooh, character possibilities are endless!”

Harley shrugs at Batman. She leans forward, her abdomen pressing into the chair.

“I texted him. We’re gonna need backup,” Ivy says, spearheading the mission. “Harley and I will infiltrate Mr. Freeze’s ice castle—” 

“—to see if we can find any research linked to the face-changing thingy,” Harley says, completing her sentence.

Ivy points to Batman and says, “You and Clayface should continue chasing down Black Mask’s goons—”

“—to see if you can grab their face-changing bazooka. Oh, and free hostages,” Harley says, reading Ivy’s mind aloud again. 

Batman interjects. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait. I can’t babysit two supervillains and Clayface.”

“Can a villain do _this_?” Clayface spins into a singing Batman, his fingers twinkling. He closes out on a trembling operatic note. “Only supervillains can do that.”

“How can I trust the three of you not to double-cross me?” Batman says.

“Well, you definitely trusted me. . .” Harley mutters, leaving off ‘last night.’ She checks to see if Ivy picked up on it. 

“Yeah, I mean you’ve worked with us before,” Ivy says, popping open a bag of plant food. They look like little grass-colored Gushers. Chewing, she adds, “Why is it different this time?”

Batman struggles to come up with an answer. Harley can _feel_ that he’s going to blurt out some nonsense.

“Can you give us a sec?” Harley seizes him by the bicep and drags him out to the hall, gritting her teeth. 

Ivy can barely utter a word, jumbled with confusion. Harley slams the door behind her. 

“What. Is. Your. Problem?” Harley pokes Batman in the chest sharply. 

He does everything to avoid looking her in the eye. “We may have worked together and are working together, but you’re all still supervillains. You’re still Harley Quinn.”

“We’ve worked together before and I never turned on you,” Harley says, doing hand gymnastics. Then, the most obvious conclusion lands flat in her ribcage. “Is this—is this because we—”

She glances up and down the hall. And then whispers into her hands. “—hooked up?”

Batman crosses his arms across his chest, puffing up like a burly frat boy. “I could hardly call it a mutual hookup.”

“Oh, what?” Harley says, flinging her arms into the air. “Because you didn’t get your big happy ending?”

_How the turntables._

“As a baseline expectation, I assume that your efforts and my efforts to satisfy are equal,” Batman bids. 

“Why are you saying that like we’re gonna try again?” Harley won’t say that it was a mistake, though, because, in the spur of the moment, she can’t deny what a relief it felt like. What it felt like to relinquish the yearning for Ivy, to forget about Ivy’s casual rejection of Harley.

“I guess we shouldn’t.” He fidgets with a gadget that looks like a bath bomb. We were both in the wrong place at the right time.”

Harley won’t say what exactly Batman means out loud. Not here. Not where Ivy’s just a few feet away. 

“Right, so it was just a hookup. And we won’t do it again,” Harley says, resting her gloved hands on Batman’s shoulders and squeezing them. “Let’s just. . . enjoy it for what it was and get back to kicking Black Mask to the curb, okay?”

The apartment door rips open. “Hey, we should get—what the hell?” Ivy stares at Harley.

Harley’s eyes widen. Her hands let up from Batman, but her arms stay glued to his shoulders. _Do I let go as fast as I can or will that definitely make me look suspicious? Or do I just lean in and make it seem completely natural? Completely natural to be manhandling Batman. Hmmm._

“And that’s why you can’t shit-talk Clayface, Bats!” Harley shakes Batman, roughing him up, and releases him. She forces a laugh through her teeth, at Ivy. 

“So, are we ready to get going to Mr. Freeze’s castle?” Ivy says, her voice as thin and dull as a bad book. Her right eyebrow creeps up at an ungodly angle. 

Harley knows that look. And it’s not good.

x o x o

Hand in hand, Harley and Ivy skate across the frozen body of water buffering Mr. Freeze’s ice castle and Gotham. There are armed guards with freeze guns up on the balconies, but they’re clearly preoccupied with catching Regices, clutching onto their phones, and curving Pokeballs. 

“See, this is what I’m talking about. Where are they hiring these henchmen? The failed entrepreneur pool on LinkedIn?” Harley scoffs, leveraging her bat to lift a garage door. 

Ivy crouches under it. “Harley, stop.” 

Harley follows her into the castle and pulls the door down, setting it down with a soft _tepttt_. “You know the LinkedIn circle jerk I’m talking about, right?” 

“Harley, we need to talk.” Ivy leads the way through the ice hallway, the floor frozen over and terraneous, the walls as sleek as satin. “And also, those LinkedIn dicks are the ones who fell into a fucking blood diamond inheritance and then shit on minimum wage workers for not working hard enough.” She sips in a deep breath and finishes her sentence. “They cannot ‘pull themselves up by the bootstraps.’ They’re actively working themselves to death.” 

Tucking her bat away, Harley laces her hands behind her back, nervously cracking her knuckles. She knows what’s coming. 

The hall is quiet with their echoing footsteps, but the ice swallows the sound before it can travel anywhere. Dim, blinking lights hang on each side of the hall. They pass a storage room and a hardware room. 

“Soooooo. . .” Harley hums. She jogs and power-walks behind Ivy, tripping over her feet. Her leg span can barely keep up with Ivy’s long strides. “Is this about what you saw earlier?”

“No, it’s about how you never break down your boxes when you recycle.” Ivy reaches a fork in the hall. 

Her arm shoots out behind her, scooping Harley back. It feels so good to stand behind Ivy, knowing she can let her guard down momentarily with her protection. Harley sighs. 

The right hallway is dark and looks like nobody has patrolled it for years. Mossy dust hangs from the ceiling, stringing all the way down the walls. The left hall is foggy with frost, with mini icicles firmly planted along the ceiling, around the flat lights. Ivy goes left. Harley edges up behind her. 

“But yes,” Ivy says, “this _is_ absolutely about you and Batman. My first question: What the fuck?”

Harley has lied to Ivy about big things, but it never turns out well. Everyone knows that. She can’t lie again.

“We—had a moment. And we’ll never do it again,” Harley says. 

“Oookay,” Ivy replies, unconvinced. “My second question, as it turns out, is also what the fuck? I mean, what is going on? God, Selina really did a number on him. He’s out here openly expressing his emotions, which is healthy and shit, but he _looked_ like he was going to start bawling at the apartment.”

“Yeaaah, she did,” Harley says. “But I did a number on him, too. And he really is hairless from the neck down, y’know?”

Ivy turns around, her mouth slack. “Wait. Harls—did you _fuck_ Batman?”

“Yes?” Harley cowers back against the wall, her index fingers touching. Ivy glares at her. “It was more of a _boink_. But, really, now that I’ve been there, done that, I don’t wanna do it again.”

“Jesus, I thought you guys were leaning on each other too hard.” Covering her eyes with her hands, Ivy exhales, like she’s just gulped a shot down. “Why, Harley?”

They reach a giant steel door with a red sign on it: AUTHORIZED AREA - LABORATORY

Harley’s surprised. Ivy’s taking it poorly. _I thought she would’ve been proud of me. But she seems sad_. _She would’ve high-fived me, asked about dick size, and then they would’ve critiqued the rhythm, cadence, and where the hell he got his wax because holy shit, he’s as smooth as a dolphin._ That’s what should’ve happened.

For someone who is engaged, Ivy cares too much about who Harley’s boinking. The guilt pools in Harley’s belly, but she resists it. She shouldn’t feel guilty about trying to move on. Ivy’s certainly trying to convince Harley that the kiss never should’ve happened and they shouldn’t even consider that avenue. They’re best friends. Platonically. 

Ivy yanks the door open with the strength of boar. There’s no plants in sight, so far. The lab section of the castle is even colder. Harley’s breath puffs in front of her. They’ve strolled into a walk-in freezer, the walls made of insulated metal. A white door awaits ahead, a chlorine blue window panel at eye-level, frozen edges crackling. 

“We hooked up, it’s fiiiiine,” Harley says, spotting an armed guard with goggles on through the window in the door. He leans against a pillar facing the door. 

The lab is so enormous, Harley can’t see all of it. Black lab tables line the entire floor, and wondrous gadgets, compact and giant, reside throughout the lab. Some buzz on and off. 

“But why?” Ivy turns the door handle and they enter the lab.

“Does it matter?” With a sprint, Harley slides across the ice floor, knees first, and jams her fist into the armed guard’s neck. She catches him and lays him down like a sack of rice. “Ive, come on, talk to me.”

“Yes, of course, it matters!” Ivy hisses. Another guard marches between tables, swiveling his gun, aiming it at the late Mr. Freeze’s cold ray and boxy winter weather generator. Ivy darts behind a pillar just two feet away from him. 

“We were both sad, okay? So, we thought, why not make it a sad and sexy time?” Harley hides behind Ivy, ducking behind her shoulder. She basks in Ivy’s hot skin, resting her forehead on her. 

Ivy yanks the guard’s right arm out of its socket, behind him, and wraps one arm around his neck like a python. _Krkk!_ He slumps out of sight, under the lab tables. Ivy strips him of his hunting knife and sticks it in the back pocket of her joggers.

Harley rambles on. “Look, Ivy, it was once, and that’s all it was. I mean, like, I enjoyed it while it lasted. Selina dumped him for Red Tool and you—”

“—I what?” Ivy chucks the hunting knife at another armed guard, tinkering with his goggles. The knife sticks in his forehead, one bead of blood crawls down and drips from his nose. 

An icicle jets past Harley’s head. Another icicle shaves a cut into her left cheek. “Shit. Ive, they know we’re here.” She grabs Ivy by the waist and takes her into a somersault, narrowly missing the shards of ice flying at them. Harley kicks a table down to its side and uses it as a temporary shield. “Oh, it’s Nora. Do you think she wants to be a bridesmaid?”

Through clenched teeth, Ivy asks, “I don’t know, what do _you_ think?” She looks around frantically, shoving shit left and right. “Not a goddamn plant anywhere.”

Nora climbs atop a table at the back of the lab, near another heavy-looking latched door. She unleashes a flurry of icicles. “I thought I told you and your friends not to come back here, Harley! You too, green lady!” Her voice carries itself through the pillars.

“‘Green lady?’” Ivy chucks a Bunsen burner at the phalanx of guards approaching. “I’m Poison fucking Ivy.” 

“She’s been stuck in ice for years. Give her a break. She’s probably also sad and horny,” Harley says, an ice fragment pinched between her teeth. She tugs it out of her wrist. “Also, what gives you the right to be pissed about who I’m sleeping with?”

They take cover behind two opposite pillars, laser-eyeing one another. Ivy trips one guard and swings him by the legs, bowling three others out like pins. She’s supervillain-strong, always. But when she’s angry, Harley can step back. 

“I’m not mad. I’m not,” Ivy hollers, over the commotion. She moderates her tone. “Ugh, Nora _would_ be a good bridesmaid. But I don’t even want a bridal party, because it’s all patriarchal bullshit. But, Chuck wants to do the whole damn thing, so I’m doing it for him.” 

“Yeah, I’m happy for you and Kiteman,” Harley says, strangling a guard with her bat, squashing his windpipe. “So. Happy.” 

“I’m turning you two in,” Nora shouts, reloading her freeze gun. She adjusts her headband, fixing her uneven white hair. “I’m already inheriting my dead husband’s money, what’s a little more?” She pulls the trigger through fuck-it tears. 

“Also, why are you compromising for him? Where’s the fuck-the-patriarchy Ivy I know? You hate the whole idea of weddings,” Harley snarls. Over her head, she fires an unconscious guard into the last few guards, who are all blindly shooting at her. Their bullets riddle the guard with holes, reverberating through the air like a juicy cucumber. The phalanx is down. It’s just Nora now. 

“Plant!” Ivy aquaplanes over a table and to a coffee-colored cabinet. A tiny, dying potted flower is perched atop it. It’s over for everyone in the lab. Harley sticks her bat back on and stands behind Ivy, eager to watch her finish the show. 

A stocky vine shatters the pot and rockets into the air and accelerates at Nora. They snap her gun in half and entrap her torso, arms, and legs. Ivy waves her hand, and the vines pitch Nora to the side, rendering her unconscious on impact. 

Harley sighs with relief. “You make it look so easy.” 

Ivy rolls her eyes. But Harley knows she likes compliments like that.

The cold temperature of the room eventually overwhelms the vines, blasting them apart. The latch on the metal door in the back of the room begs Harley to pry it open. 

“You’re up, champ,” Ivy says, shivering, her body curled into her arms. Her utility shirt stiffens, too. 

Harley bends her fingers in her fingerless gloves. “Why didn’t I listen to you when you said to bring a jacket?”

“It’s your whole self-sabotaging thing, remember?”

“Yep.” Harley blows hot air onto her fingers and heaves the latch up, and jerks the door open.

Glacial air swirls all around Harley and Ivy. They step into the little walk-in freezer, where each wall is stocked with shelves of perfectly stacked pints of gelato, on top of black packing blankets. All Sicilian Pistachio. Harley sticks her nose up at it. Pistachio gelato is fucking nasty. Mocha all the way. The room’s no larger than a bedroom, and the floor is plain concrete. A plastic white box full of cylindrical containers of glowing cyan and magenta chemicals beckons Harley and Ivy. The door shuts behind them, a gust of cold air rushing against Harley’s legs. 

Flinging the top off the box, Harley flicks her finger against one glass cylinder filled with a fizzy liquid. The handwritten label reads, ‘stamina.’ 

“Huh. Batman could use some stamina, if ya know what I mean.” Harley can’t help but make jokes about the hookup, even if Ivy hates it. It makes Harley feel better about the guilt Ivy’s displacing onto her. 

“Tact really isn’t your strong suit, is it?” Ivy observes another glass with a blue liquid that gleams. “This one says ‘regeneration.’ Neither of us would really benefit from that.” 

“Ew, this one is just liquid Viagra.” Harley tosses the glass over her shoulder. 

“Harls, look,” Ivy says, wrapping her hand around Harley’s forearm. “This one says ‘DNA stabilizer.’ If that’s not for Black Mask, then we have a lot more problems coming.” 

“So, why doesn’t Black Mask just pick these up and finish his face-changing bazooka?” Harley lifts a tray of glasses and sets it aside. The rest of the trays are filled with DNA stabilizers. 

“Look, they’re all dated. They’re still testing and formulating the stabilizers.” Ivy checks through the rest of the trays, checking random glasses for dates. The most recent one is dated yesterday. She slips it in her breast pocket. “Okay, let’s get the fuck outta here. My buds are gonna fall off.” 

Harley shudders. “Yeah, let’s bounce.” Her nips are ready to stab through her top, and there’s nothing sexy about it. It fucking hurts. 

Pushing against the back of the door, Harley grunts. She throws her body against the door, but it’s just not budging. Maybe the door’s stuck. Maybe it’s frozen into place. She forces herself against the door, bonking her head. The door will not open.

“I think we’re stuck in here, Ivy.” 

“What do you mean? What do you mean, ‘stuck?’” Ivy tries her luck, banging her fists against the door to no avail. “If we’re trapped in here, I’m gonna freak the fuck out.” 

Harley checks her phone for service. And of course, in an ice castle, there is no service. _Fuck_. 

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Ivy babbles. “We gotta get the fuck outta here. We are gonna freeze, Harley.”

The door is bolted shut, not budging an inch.

In times of crisis, Harley knows her role. She’s the mostly calm one. Ivy freaks out, but eventually simmers down. Harley collects the packing blankets from the shelves, the gelato tossing about, skittering. She moves the white box out of the way and pats down a couple layers of blanket. 

“Lay down,” Harley commands, motioning at the floor. 

“What? I’m engaged, we can’t.” Ivy lifts a ringless hand. 

“For warmth, Ivy,” Harley says, enunciating. “We need to cuddle like we’re in a fanfiction, because our lives literally depend on it.” 

Harley and Ivy lay down, facing one another. Harley bundles Ivy with the rest of the blankets. Their cold breath storms between them, and nothing else, nobody else stands between them. They’re quiet for a moment, their bodies adjusting to the cold. 

“I was s-sad,” Harley says, quivering. She squirms closer to Ivy. 

“Sad about w-what?” 

“Are you asking because you don’t know?”

“Is this about the kiss, again, Harley?” Ivy asks, her red hair falling in her face. 

“Of course it is. I can’t stop thinking about it, Ive. I think about it all the time. And when I’m not thinking about it, I’m thinking about you,” Harley confesses, her gaze unwaveringly connecting with Ivy’s. 

The pupils of her green eyes expand.

“You know I can’t talk about this, Harley. I can’t,” Ivy says, her jaw tightening. 

“So, why do you care if I slept with Batman?”

Harley waits for an answer. 

“I-I don’t care.” 

Harley fights the urge to break. Crying isn’t a good look on her. Her eyes claw at Ivy, grappling the upper hand between them. “I slept with him to forget about you. I wanted to forget about the kiss, about how I feel about you. And I did, for a second.”

“Don’t,” Ivy says, firmly. 

“So why the hell are you so broken up about Batman?”

“You know what? You’re right. We should just drop it. Let’s just put it behind us and forget I brought it up,” Ivy advises, shaking her head. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” There’s no room for shame here. A rush of adrenaline pulses in Harley’s fingertips. She moves closer. “I just can’t.”

“Why are you telling me this? I’m getting married to Kiteman.” 

“Ivy, I love you,” Harley says, clutching onto Ivy’s hand. “I’m _in love_ with you.” Finally admitting it out loud is a fucking relief, a weight of a thousand tons off her chest. Harley’s never even thought it to herself, but she’s pieced together her feelings. She is unequivocally and hopelessly in love with Ivy. And it’s a bottomless abyss. 

“Harls, I can’t.” Ivy strokes Harley’s cheek with an unsteady hand. “I am getting married to Kiteman so soon. He proposed to me three times—I can’t let him down again.” 

Harley places her hand over Ivy’s. “But what about you? Are you happy with him?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am,” Ivy stumbles.

There’s nothing clear about how Ivy feels, but Harley can _feel_ it in her bones. Ivy loves Kiteman. But she does not want to commit to him. She does not want to marry him.

“If this is really the end, would you rather make someone else happy or be happy for yourself?” Harley asks.

The space between them fills with their breath. The warmth of Ivy’s breath melts the frost from the tip of Harley’s nose. Her nerves sweat through her palms. Ivy gazes at Harley, nibbling at her lower lip. 

Harley holds Ivy’s face in her hands and hovers an inch away from her. They take turns, catching each other’s eyes and staring at each other’s lips. 

“If this is the end—do what you want,” Harley says, her voice as soft and wispy as monsoon rain. 

Ivy brings Harley’s lips to a close, sealing the space between them. Harley suffocates in the kiss, inhaling the knockout scent of Ivy’s earthy skin. Her thumb tugs at Harley’s cheek. 

Harley tilts her head, biting down on Ivy’s supple bottom lip, tasting the inside of her mouth. Her fingers in Ivy’s thick hair, tongue tingling against hers. 

The wintry air suddenly burns up in a halo around Harley, moaning into Ivy’s mouth. Harley entangles her legs in Ivy’s, tensing, locking her in an unyielding embrace. Hand wandering down Harley’s waist, Ivy draws her in, chest pressing against her chest, on top of her. She kisses Harley’s neck, sucking in skin. 

If this _is_ the end, it’ll never be enough for Harley. She can’t get enough. She can’t let go. She’s fallen in love with Ivy. 


	7. who's who

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-freezer, Harley and Ivy return to team up with Batman and Clayface. Black Mask has deployed imposters and they're impersonating important public figures, running amok, and wreaking havoc in Gotham. Harley has to deal with Black Mask's rapidly unfolding plan while grappling with her internal torment over her relationship with Ivy. Maybe Ivy will finally come to her senses this time around...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely an introspective chapter for Harley. We get to dive a little deeper and steep in her anxiety-ridden feelings for Ivy, all while she's wrestling with the weight of Gotham's fate on her shoulders.
> 
> I am SO dedicated to this angst, y'all, it's like my second full-time job lmao
> 
> Please enjoy (or feel your feelings as they come up)!

CHAPTER 7 — who’s who

A haze of frost drifts under Harley’s nose. Ivy’s arm secures her in warmth, hugging her waist. Harley can feel her breath, sweeping against her shoulder, her lips pressed on Harley’s neck. 

Harley holds Ivy’s hand against her bare white skin. She doesn’t know when they fell asleep. She doesn’t know if they’ve taken a nap or if they’ve spent the night. Whether to forget or grasp onto the memories of that _other_ kiss they’d just shared.

Ivy was the one who pulled her in and stayed there and kept her there. And Harley could only see stars. Everything crushing her tumbled to the wayside, when it was just the two of them. But Ivy was also the one who pushed her away and said they shouldn’t be doing this, _again_. They faced each other in silence and then cuddled for heat before falling into a slumber together. 

In Harley’s chaotic world, truly no good deed ever goes unpunished. But also, she _is_ the hot mess who hurricanes her way through life. Ivy’s still engaged to Kiteman. And that was just a kiss. Right?

Light pours into the walk-in freezer as the door swings open. A gust of sharp air assaults Harley’s nostrils and tickles her forearm. Her eyes click open. Ivy un-clamps her legs around Harley and releases her from her arms and wipes her mouth. Through an outstretched hand, Harley strains to see an armed guard, gun holstered. She springs to her feet like a frog and pulls for her bat. 

“Oh, Harley! This is going to mess with the group dynamic. Should we talk about it in the group chat?” Clayface asks, his voice emerging from a pudgy guard’s disguise. 

“Why? It’s not like we did anything. We definitely didn’t do anything,” Harley mumbles. 

“Yeah, definitely,” Ivy adds. The air has sucked the moisture out of her hair, and it’s starting to frizz. Her collar’s popped and unkempt. Her cheeks and nose blush green. 

Clayface gapes at Harley and then at Ivy. He knows.

“It was cold, okay?” Harley bumps past Clayface and back into the lab. 

Nora’s not in the lab anymore and neither is the pile of unconscious guards. The lab is still a jumbled mess of metal gadgetry and tables.

“Batman’s waiting in his inconspicuous flying cockroach,” Clayface says, leading the way. 

x o x o

At the Batcomputer, Batman drinks his milk tea with his pinky up. Harley, Ivy, and Clayface stir their tea with cute little spoons, _ding, ding, dinging_ against their cups. Batman runs a tape over and over again on the computer screen. 

It’s a hallway in Arkham Asylum, the security film gritty and washed in a gauzy purple layer. Two guards drag a man down the hall, their backs to the camera. The man is green haired, his feet tugging on the floor, like he has a limp, or physically can’t walk. The guards shake him into the light, and the man’s milk white skin is unbearably bright. He doesn’t make it to the end of the hall, fainting onto his back, his clown face sagging at the mouth, his eye sockets drooping to the floor, yanking his skin sideways. His eyeballs trickle like eggs, down his forehead and into his hairline. 

“Thaaat’s the Joker!” Clayface exclaims, splashing his tea onto his hand. 

Harley studies the tape, face cramped in disbelief. “That’s not Joker.” 

“Well, it’s not me,” Clayface says. He sticks his clay hands in the air. “I swear.”

“We dunked Joker in acid,” Ivy says. “That can’t be him.” Her phone vibrates again and again. It must be Kiteman.

Harley had forgotten about him and the engagement while they were in the freezer. But she plummets back to earth. 

“It’s not him,” Batman says, rerunning the tape. “But it _is_ one of Black Mask’s goons. He’s started deploying them around Gotham. He ended the third round of his tournament last night.”

The reality of Gotham sinks in, and it scares Harley a little. She’s not afraid of many things. But this is an awful realization.

“We’re too late. He called off the tournament because he’s ready to execute his real plan,” Harley says.

“Okay, yeah, that totally scans,” Ivy says, slurping her tea. “But why did he hold the tournament in the first place? Is it like a team-building thing to make the goons feel like they aren’t just pawns in his big murder plans?”

Harley chugs her tea and scorches the shit out of her tongue. She sputters. Ivy snickers. _My dumb shit always makes Ivy laugh_. 

Batman doesn’t laugh. “The tournament was a front to build capital to fund the labs to build his face-changer. And to scope out a multi-tiered plan to see where the weakest points of the city are, where to deploy first, and to deal the final blows to Gotham.”

“Oh, God. He could be halfway there to ‘final blows,’ with the pace that we’re moving,” Harley says.

“Yeah, it’s fucking scary, dude,” Ivy quips. Her phone ticks as she texts. 

The Gotham map pieces together on the Batcomputer screen, towering over Harley and her gang. Red dots gobble up Gotham. 

“AhHhh, that makes me itchy,” Clayface chimes, lashing at his body. 

“According to the Asylum processing record, Sinestro and Two-Face have been captured, too. That can’t be good.” Batman drags the map around the screen, looking for more incidents.

“Okay, well, this sounds like a long trip, so I’m gonna dip,” Ivy says, doing a two-finger salute. 

“Wait!” Harley begs. “Come with, please.” She grasps Ivy’s hands. 

Ivy texts Kiteman back. “Wellll, I guess a few more hours won’t hurt.” 

“We need to make a plan immediately,” Batman says. He swipes up on the computer screen and splits it into two, one of the map and the other a list of places that the goons have struck. 

Harley twirls her bat and cracks her knuckles. “No time for a plan, let’s go check it out.”

Ivy shrugs at Batman and steps in line with Harley.

x o x o

Slamming down a shot glass, Harley belches a breath of Fireball whiskey. It’s her favorite. “Whooo, that’s better.”

“Somehow, I get the feeling that now’s not the best time to do shots like your life depends on it,” Ivy retorts, side-eyeing Harley. “I mean, really, Harls, I would’ve been fine with Patrón. But Fireball? _Ugchh_.” 

They sprawl at Noonan’s Bar, where normal Joker bartends, shaking up Cosmos and flicking shots across the counter. Harley and Ivy sit in a corner booth, which is stuck with gum and slick with greasy onion ring residue. 

“Do you hear that?” Harley asks. She squints her eyes at the double doors. The faintest _drrrt, drrrrt, drrrrt_ rebounds in the distance. 

Ivy shakes her head. She pulls her utility shirt over her chest. 

Harley’s already distracted. “So, listen, what happened back at the ice castle—”

“—is never gonna happen again. For real, this time,” Ivy says. 

Initially, disappointment drags in Harley’s throat, but she _knows_ Ivy kissed her back. This can’t be one-sided now. Ivy can’t deny it much longer, can she? 

Harley leans on Ivy and smirks. “If you say so.” Now’s not the time to have another heart-stopping confession session. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ivy shudders.

_Drrrt, drrrrt, drrrrt_. The sound gets louder. 

“If it’s never going to happen again, then that’s that,” Harley scoots from the booth, drawn to the approaching sound. 

“Kiteman is waiting for me and we’re going to get married and fly kites and...Oh, God.” Ivy fingers dig into her forehead, wrinkling it. “Do I even like flying kites?”

“Do me a favor, get under the table,” Harley says, pointing under the booth. 

“What?”

The double doors of the bar blast wide-open. Two-Face stands in the doorway, with two henchmen, painting the bar with bullet holes. A swarm of henchmen armed with their fists and a various assortment of _Clue_ weapons. 

_So, that’s definitely not Two-Face who’s sitting in Arkham Asylum. That schmuck is probably gurgling in a puddle right now._

Ivy covers her head under the table. “Jesus!”

Harley tosses a dense glass ashtray into the air and bats it with a satisfying click, striking one hench clean in the crotch. With a handful of scrotum, he buckles to the floor, chin chattering shut against the muzzle of his Tommy gun. 

“Oh, hey, Harley!” Two-Face says, finger off the trigger. “And Poison Ivy.”

Harley bellows over the cowering heads in the bar. A few bottles clatter and break. 

“So, ya working with Black Mask, huh?” Harley chucks a beer bottle at the other hench, bruising him in the brow ridge. Two-Face groans and rolls his eyes. 

“I really should’ve hired the interns, but decided to go with these two knuckleheads,” Two-Face mutters. He sprays bullets into the ceiling. “He’s paying me up the ass. Eh, what can I say? It pays to be his contractor.”

“Contractor?” Harley skids across the floor, clearing the line of bullets nearly clipping her. The rest of the henchmen fill the bar.

“Ugh, Harls. I keep telling you, you can’t trust these douchecanoes.” Ivy stands up and lifts her arms, manipulating vines, grabbing henches by the ankles and smashing them through windows. 

Harley makes it behind the bar, crawling on rubber pads as the hundreds of Grey Goose and house wine bottles shatter above her, sending glass in every direction. A hench lands on the bar counter, strangled purple with vines. 

“I’m gonna need you to elaborate, Two-Face. You’re a contractor for Black Mask?” Harley asks, cracking a champagne bottle on the edge of the counter. She hauls a hench clobbering a couple by the tie, over the counter. She shoves the broken bottle into his mouth and buries it deep into his bloodstream with her bat. _Thwack!_

“Yeah,” Two-Face says, reloading. He lights a cigar. “Lemme put it this way, Black Mask has more funding than military recruitment ads but less than erectile dysfunction treatment.” 

Harley and Ivy exchange perplexed looks. That’s a big and entirely unknowable range. Harley stomps on a hench hand. Ivy punches someone in the nose. 

“He’s paying me a lot, alright? And, he says if I catch you, I get a 40 percent cut of whatever else he’s got planned,” Two-Face says. He aims at Harley’s chest. 

_40 percent cut of Black Mask’s shit. As if. That’s a lie._

Ivy shoots her plants forth, her vines grabbing Two-Face’s gun and snapping it half. 

“Gotham is out to get you, Harley,” Two-Face warns, surrendering. 

Harley’s heart pounds in her throat. By now, Black Mask has probably bought half of Gotham’s villains, just like she’d thought. There’s no turning back. 

Ivy plant’s wrap around Harley and float her out of the bar. Ivy steadies her, hands clutching onto Harley’s waist. 

“You okay?” Ivy asks. 

“Mostly.” Harley chews her nails. It’s always been a bad habit, and it grosses Ivy out, but she can’t help it right now. “I’m used to pissing off one or two people at a time, not all of Gotham, ya know?”

“Yeah, but this is about money. I’m annoyed with you, like, 50-50. But you don’t see me coming after you.” Ivy pats Harley’s shoulder.

“You may be annoyed half the time, but you’re here with me,” Harley teases.

This can’t be the woman who’s marrying Kiteman. Not when she’s spending most of her time with Harley, not when she’s making out with Harley. That can’t be the reality.

The skies are grey and lifeless, and the street is littered with totalled cars, askew and astray. There’s no traffic, and hardly any living soul is out. The brick buildings lining the street flicker with flames. Some of these signs may be a typical occurrence in Gotham, but all at the same time? Something’s _definitely_ not right. 

A blur of maroon zooms past Harley and Ivy, blowing their hair out. Another blur of maroon zips around them. And another one. Something flattens Harley to the pavement. She eats shit and releases an ugly, guttural grunt. 

“Alright, so where’s the real Flash?” Harley shouts, getting friendly with the pavement. Her chin is scraped and the skin of her collarbone abrades like old paint, bleeding. Ivy’s vines help Harley to her feet. 

The Flashes sprint up a tornado around her and Ivy. Harley punches and swings her bat into nothingness. A Flash whizzes between Harley and Ivy, tearing vines from Ivy’s control and tying them up, back pressed on back. 

Ivy grumbles. “Ah, fuck.”

“I _am_ always tied up, aren’t I?” Harley comes to the realization abruptly. 

“Uhhh, no comment,” Ivy says, hesitating. 

One Flash skids to a stop, another follows, and the last one tumbles facedown, to a halt. Harley and Ivy are effectively bound in layers and layers of vine, which are deceptively hardy. 

The Flash standing in between the other two asks, “So, how are we gonna split the bounty?”

“A third each, yeah?” the one on the left says. The maroon suit around his elbows and knees are busted. His pale, freckled skin shows through. 

“But if I hadn’t spotted her, we woulda left, so I say I get 60,” the one on the right says, his Flash mask ripped half-off his face. His black bangs look like a bar graph, flipped upside down. 

“Yeah, right,” the middle Flash says. 

Harley winks at Ivy. She knows what Harley is thinking. 

“How about 40, 30, 30?” the one on the right reasons. 

The other two are not having it.

Ivy flexes, her arms taut, and the vines loosen. Harley hops out of them. The Flashes snap out of their tiff. 

“You get the ginger,” Harley directs. She posts up with her bat. 

“Yep. I got the guy with the Chuck Todd bangs,” Ivy replies, readying her vines, hovering behind her. 

The freckled Flash lands a few mice-strength punches on Harley, in a flurry, the last one rearranging her chest for a second. 

“OWww!” Harley grasps onto her left breast, the pain muted but present. Before he can land another punch, Harley catches his fist and hangs onto his wrist. She pushes forward, throwing him off balance, and then flings him over her shoulder with demonlike ferocity. His head smashes into a nearby car, his nose fractured to the left, blood and brain leaking from his skull.

Ivy’s vines hold the Flash with the bad bangs a few feet off the ground, and then she dismembers him, wrenching his arms and legs from their sockets, ligaments tearing with a wet sound. She catches the last Flash by the ankle, but his face starts to liquefy and plop through his mask’s eye holes. 

“Oh, my God, _ewwww_ ,” Ivy says, letting go of him. He bubbles and toils into a pool of the Flash suit, soaked dark. 

A giant, shining yellow butcher knife materializes in the sky and dangles above Harley and Ivy. With the force of a meteor, it comes crashing down. 

Harley tackles Ivy, the two of them rolling on each other before coming to a stop behind an overturned sedan. Harley stays on top of Ivy, the full weight of her body on her.

“So, I’m guessing Sinestro isn’t in Arkham,” Harley says, pushing herself off Ivy. “Come on.” She takes Ivy by the hand and they dart out of Sinestro’s view, down an alley. A recycling dumpster shields them. They sit on the dirt floor and lean against the brick wall building in the alley. 

“Black Mask has made a lot of deals with the dickheads of Gotham,” Ivy says. “I mean, what is he paying these guys, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think money is a problem for him, Ive.” 

Sinestro pummels the cars and buildings with fiery blasts of fear. Harley plugs her ears.

“I know I’m always making messes and fucking shit up, but I think this mess tops them all,” Harley says, breathless. “Everybody’s after me now and everything is fucking chaos.”

Ivy rubs Harley’s shoulder. “You do make a lot of messes, but you’re trying to stop Black Mask from whatever the hell he’s doing. You’re doing the best you can.” 

“The best I can do is let Black Mask put a bounty on my head and destroy Gotham with his imposters. Not even Batman can stop him—his criminal database sucks,” Harley says, pinching at the scrape on her chin. 

“Yeaaah, his database is terrible. He couldn’t even get a DNA match for Mr. Freeze.” 

The brick above them crumbles into dust and falls off Harley’s shoulder. Every villain in the city is out for her head and everywhere she turns there’s a new imposter. Nothing is as it seems. Gotham is swaying and buckling under the burden of Black Mask’s regime. Where does she turn next? What does she do next? Who’s the next imposter?

Gotham weighs on Harley, and she feels _every extreme_. She can’t shake the way Ivy looked at her in the walk-in freezer. She can’t forget how Ivy brought her close, in desperation. It felt right. 

But Harley’s learned to let go of what she wants, if it’s for the greater good, even if it hurts. 

“Ive, you’ve gotta get outta here,” Harley says. “You’ve gotta get back to Kiteman in one piece.”

“Where are you going to go?” Ivy asks.

“I’ll meet Batman and Clayface back at the Batcave. Don’t worry about me,” Harley says. “I just need you to get back safe.”

“Harls, why are you talking like we’re in the final stretch of a heartfelt action-romance-comedy?” Ivy asks, a curious expression crossing her face.

“Look, Ive, I’m a ticking time bomb. It’s only a matter of time before these goons capture me. You can’t stick around for that,” Harley explains. “I’m too dangerous for you to be around. I don’t want you in the line of fire for me.” 

Ivy’s face softens, like she’s caught off-guard. 

Harley holds Ivy’s hands. “I love you in a way that I’ve never loved anything or anyone before. It scares the shit outta me. Wait, don’t say anything.” She palms Ivy’s face, index finger behind her ear. “I’ll get over it, one day, I swear. I’ll be planning your bachelorette party after this shit blows over, I promise.” 

One of those statements is a lie. Harley will wait for no man, woman, person. But she will wait for Ivy. Even if Ivy gets hitched to Kiteman and rides off into the sunset without looking back at Harley. She will wait for her.

“Okay, you’re right,” Ivy says. “You’re right.”

Harley nearly bursts with excitement. 

“Kiteman’s waiting for me at his place. I should get going.”

Harley shrinks back and lets Ivy go. 

“I’ll text you when I get home, okay?” She unfurls her hand and places a delicate pink flower in Harley’s hand. “We’ll be taking shots at my bachelorette party in no time, right?”

x o x o

Batman and Clayface sit at the Batcomputer and run through tapes of imposter Wonder Woman and Superman, levitating through the streets of Gotham. Wonder Woman slings her shield like a discus, wiping out the Justice League marketing agency skyscraper, making it rain glass. Superman lasers down pedestrians crossing the street and strolling on the sidewalk, and chops cars in half, leaving the passengers cauterized and void of any humanity. Their bodies are nothing more than blood, shit, grease, teeth, and hair. A goop of flesh. 

“Where have you been, Harley?” Clayface asks.

Batman leaps up, on edge. He interrogates her. “What’s my go-to post-fight snack?”

“A DQ Blizzard.” 

“What do Joker and I have in common?”

“Reese Witherspoon is everything, except in _Hot Pursuit._ That was a farce,” Harley says. “It’s me, Bats. I can tell you things that only you and I know about.” She blinks at him.

He stutters under his breath.

Clayface observes Harley up close. “I was beginning to think you eloped with Ivy.”

“In your dreams and mine, Clay,” she says. “I’ve seen a whole bunch of imposters. What other bad news do you guys have? Lay it on me.” She sighs with exhaustion at sight of Wonder Woman and Superman maiming and killing Gotham citizens.

“Well, unless you were fighting us at Gotham National Bank or holding Gordon hostage, we saw a few Harley doppelgangers,” Clayface says. 

“Greaaaat,” Harley groans. 

“If it makes you feel better, I had to fight a Catwoman imposter,” Batman says. “Here’s what’s left of her.” He lifts a finger and a single clump of hair attached to a chunk of orange-tan goon meat hangs from it. 

“Do you feel better?” Harley asks.

“No.”

The three of them flick through tapes of imposters, whether it be Green Lantern chainsawing his groupies to pieces or Deathstroke working out in Arkham while the real Deathstroke hunts for Batman and Harley, mowing anyone down with his sword. An hour ticks by. 

Harley checks her phone, again and again. Ivy hasn’t texted her, yet. It’s been a tad too long. But maybe traffic’s really bad.

Batman stops at a live news broadcast of Jim and a formation of SWAT specialists, cornering a imposter Batman into a dead end alleyway. The aerial camera hovers above them, blinding light washing out the darkness. A notification winks on the computer screen. 

“Jim, that’s not me,” Batman assures. 

“Are you sure?? How do I know you’re not a imposter?” Jim blathers through the phone. On screen, he steadies his gun at Batman.

“I am Batman.”

“That’s exactly what a imposter would say,” Jim huffs. “Can’t trust anyone.”

“Jim, you’re a damn good cop. Only I would say that,” Batman says. 

Jim exhales. “Alright, cuff this guy!” The SWAT team flocks in and throws imposter Batman to the ground. It won’t be long until he melts out of those cuffs. Jim ambles away from the commotion. The static dies down on the phone. 

“It’s bad out here,” he says. “I got guys selling out to hunt Harley Quinn and you. I can’t trust anyone out here.” 

“You can trust me,” Batman says. “Harley is with me, so you can rest assured that you are interacting with imposters.” 

“Hypothetically—uhh—if we handed her over to Black Mask, do you think he’d give up this face-changing ray?” Jim asks. “Again, hypothetically?”

“No.” Batman shakes his head at Harley, like Jim’s the embarrassing friend he’s cutting off at the dinner party. “Harley and I aren’t what Black Mask wants. He just doesn’t want any more interruptions in his plan. It’s just easier to stop us when he’s got half of Gotham coming down on us.”

“I don’t know,” Jim says, hacking phlegm. “He seems like he’s succeeded in his plan. What more is there left?”

“That’s a good question.” 

Clayface interjects. “Perhaps, it’s as simple as it seems. He wants to rule Gotham.” 

“Is that the clay monster?” Jim asks. He lowers his voice. “How do you know _he’s_ not a imposter?”

“Nobody can imitate a true acTOooR!” Clayface exclaims. He breaks out into song. Lately, he’s been really into Donna Summer. 

Harley’s phone vibrates in her booty shorts. A text from Ivy. She steps away.

**Ivy:** Hey, I’m at the dead mall. I’m waiting for you here.

**Harley:** Is Kiteman with you?

**Ivy:** No. Come alone. Now

There’s an urgency to her text. A quickness. Harley scoops her bat up and bolts from the Batcave. Ivy could be in trouble. Or, she could be asking for Harley—in a different way. _Maybe this is it. Maybe she’s come to her senses! This is it._

If Kiteman’s not with Ivy, that can only mean so many things. For Harley, it means Ivy chose _her_. 

“Hey, I gotta bounce. Ivy needs me,” Harley says.

“What’s going on?” Batman asks.

“I don’t know. She says she’s waiting for me at the dead mall.”

“Maybe we should go with you. It’s not safe to go by yourself,” Batman insists, straining to stand.

Harley holds her hand up. “I think we’re more of a target when we’re together, Bats, no offense.”

Clayface raises his eyebrow at her. “Well, if she isn’t running to Kiteman, then it must be important, Harley.”

She beams at him. _Ivy thought about what I said! I’m finally getting through to her._

“Fine,” Batman says. “Be careful.”

Harley pops a location pin to Clayface, as excited as a kid with an ice cream cone. 

x o x o

The dead mall smells of dust and rotten food. The lights flutter and fizz above Harley’s head. There’s a bag of chips infested with ants on the coffee table. A chair lays askew in the kitchen. Dirty dishes are stacked sloppily in the sink. Nobody’s been here for a long time.

“Ivy?” Harley calls out. Her sneakers echo across the floor. All of Ivy’s plants are dead and crunchy, strewn about like an explosion has gone off. “I got here as fast as I could. Are you okay?”

Harley explores the living room and kitchen, and then the upper level, and the basement. She texts Ivy again. 

**Harley:** Hey, I’m here. Where are you??

No answer. 

“Look, I know I’ve sprung a lot on you in the last two days,” Harley says, talking at the walls. “I’m sorry if it all came out, uncontrollably. If you need time to process, I totally get it.”

She calls out again. “Ivy?” And again. “Ive, where are you? You’re starting to freak me out.” 

“I understand if you’re scared. I’m scared, too. You’re my best friend in the world and I’m terrified to ruin our friendship,” Harley says. She takes a deep breath. “But I’m willing to dive in, head-first, blindly. Even if—even if it destroys our friendship.”

She loops around the mall again. Nobody in sight. Ivy’s nowhere to be found. She comes across a few stray framed photos of Ivy in an abandoned gift shop that’s been converted into something resembling a bedroom.

There’s one gold-framed picture of the whole crew, Harley grinning like the Cheshire Cat, arm around Ivy’s waist. Ivy simpers, one arm around Harley’s shoulder and the other behind King Shark. That was after they’d stopped Joker from taking over the ice skating rink behind Dave & Buster’s. The crew all went ice-skating after. Clayface was, unshockingly, amazing. The rest of them got by. Dr. Psycho was fun to punt around, like a hockey puck. Harley remembers holding hands with Ivy and skating around, playing a game of “Who’d You Rather?” They went off in their own slow-rounds, ignoring the rest of the crew, giggling at each other. 

Another framed photo is a selfie of Harley and Ivy, lounging against their kill-board after infiltrating Riddle U. Ivy dons Riddler’s gaudy green bowler hat and Harley strikes a seductively bored face, with Riddler’s suit jacket slipping off her shoulder. Ivy took a lot of hot selfies that day, and Harley helped her choose the right one for Instagram. Harley saved a few onto her phone, in a special “Ivy <3” folder. Every time Ivy needed a good throwback post, Harley had her covered. She has more pictures of Ivy than herself on her phone. 

The last photo is in one of those white Ikea frames, unremarkable but fine. It’s a photo of Harley, staring straight into the camera, bruised and splattered with the blood of Joker’s men, after she dumped him, with her bat slung across her back. The joy in her eyes is electric. She’s staring back at Ivy, presumably. She really couldn’t have left Joker and found her peace without Ivy, and she reminds herself.

Harley takes the frame. Where’s that joy now? She’s a nervous wreck, her skin slick with sweat. She loves these photos for all the memories they bring up. But she also realizes something else: Ivy didn’t take them with her. 

When Ivy left the dead mall to live with Kiteman, she didn’t take these photos. She left Harley behind. 

Maybe Harley’s been reading everything the wrong way. Maybe Ivy _really_ was trying to let her down gently and tell her they couldn’t keep doing whatever-the-hell dance they were doing. The teasing, the freezing each other out, the heart-racing gazes, the _kissing_ , the freezing each other out, again, all of it. 

Maybe Ivy doesn’t want that. Maybe she was trying to find a way to tell Harley that Kiteman is her focus now. And that means Harley needs to take a backseat to him. For Ivy. 

Harley stands in the living room, and the stillness of the mall encapsulates her. “Ivy?”

The epiphany registers, finally, if a little late. Ivy is not here. 

It’s not that she’s running late or playing some sick game of hide and seek. She decided not to show up. 

**Harley:** I understand if you don’t want to see me. I don’t blame you.

It all feels so angsty to type out and physically will herself to send the text, but she does anyway. _Why is she ignoring me now? I thought she wanted me here. I thought she did._

Harley sits on the cold floor, criss-crossed. Her legs are giving out and she is thoroughly battered. 

She shuts her eyes tightly, clenching her jaw. There’s nothing toiling in the pit of her stomach. Not anger, not the depths of sadness, not even a jolt of exasperation. Just simple and plain and utter consumption of her soul. She’s given everything she can. She doesn’t want to ask _why_ , again. She knows why Ivy didn’t show up. She knew the answer before and she knows it now. 

She lays down, curling her legs up, pinning the bat between her head and knees. Harley sobs quietly, each cry swallowed up by the next. 


	8. catch me if you can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter picks up minutes after Chapter 7. It's a thrilling, heart-pounding ride that only spells more trouble (and maybe heartbreak) for Harley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a little later than usual!! I had a very demanding week at work, but I was determined to post this TODAY!! We're winding waaaaay down to the end of this story soon . . . Thank you all for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. It definitely doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated :)

CHAPTER 8 — catch me if you can

Harley doesn’t get much time to herself in the dead mall. The unmistakable sound of heels clacks into the living room. Harley’s tears suck back in and she wipes her face with her forearm. 

Ivy. 

She’s back in her normal outfit, clad in her black jacket and plant leggings.

“You’re here,” Harley gasps, hoping Ivy doesn’t see her red-rimmed eyes. But her streaked mascara gives it away.

Ivy doesn’t say anything. She resides in the dark, legs stiff. 

Harley stands, and approaches. Her bat is grimy with blood, sweat, and tears. “I thought you bailed. But you came.” The hairs on the back of her neck spike like a cactus. “Ive?”

Dipping into the natural light, Ivy’s eyes are aglint with apathy. Her hair’s different. It’s short and scraggly, like it someone had slashed off half of it. 

“Oh, _shit_!” Harley spats, somersaulting to the left to avoid the roaring vines snaking towards her. “Where is the real Ivy?” This is a fucking trap.

Imposter Ivy growls, and lunges forward, snapping her thorny vines like whips. Harley cartwheels with one arm, and plants her feet, swinging her bat wildly at the imposter. 

“Where—” Harley delivers a roundhouse kick to Ivy’s chest, butting her off-balance. “—is she?” Like a bulldozer, Harley charges at the imposter, taking her down by the legs. She slams her down to the floor.

Before Harley can shift her weight and restrain imposter Ivy, a vine hooks around her waist and lashes her onto her back. Her brain rattles around in her skull as her head bounces on the floor. Harley grips onto the vine, the thorns lacerating her hands, and wrests it off. She uses her bat to keep striking vines at a distance. 

Imposter Ivy implores all the vines, like a propelling octopus, square at Harley’s head. Harley blocks with her forearms.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Harley strains, breathlessly. “But I will.” She dodges a kick and takes a swift elbow to the stomach. She staggers back, printing her knees with her bloodied palms. Then she notices that Ivy’s skin _is_ green, just like real Ivy. But this is _not_ the real her. That face-changer isn’t just a face-changer anymore. It’s closer to a shape-shifting ray now—and clearly, there are still kinks to work out. 

One singular, thick vine thrashes, like a wave, sweeping Harley off her feet. Not in the pretty, romantic way. Harley’s bones clank against the ground as she scrapes to a halt. The adrenaline and rage pumps through her body, overtaking the pain she _should_ be in. 

Vines slither around Harley’s wrists, and then around her throat, her feet leaving the floor. She croaks and chokes, flailing, forcing her hands to pry at the vines. Seeing Imposter Ivy’s face makes it hard to bash at her, so Harley closes her eyes. With one leg leading, Harley backflips, yanking the vines with her, catapulting Imposter Ivy over her head and flat on her face. The vines slacken and yellow, dying instantly. 

Harley nails Imposter Ivy to the floor, the bat crunching into her collarbones. Harley holds her down. 

“Okay, so now that we’re on the same page,” Harley huffs, “you mind telling me where the hell Ivy is?”

Imposter Ivy finally speaks, her voice deep with all the edges of a goon. “If you can pay me double what Black Mask is gonna pay me, I’ll tell you.”

Harley pushes the bat into the imposter’s throat. “How about you tell me and I won’t crush your windpipe?”

“Not a chance.” 

This is her only lead to finding out what happened to Ivy. There’s no time for a long winded interrogation. It’s not really her style, anyway. She can hear the clobbering of footsteps, pattering nearer. The imposter must’ve called for backup. 

Harley raises her bat above her head and deals a final blow to the imposter’s face. 

x o x o

Harley arrives at Kiteman’s apartment, slipping in through the window. She gets caught in the billowing curtain and struggles to unravel out of it.

“That was embarrassing for me to watch,” Clayface says, peeking over his shoulder at Harley. 

Batman’s busy in the kitchen, scanning the area with special goggles. The front door is busted open, a hole in the wall, where the lock should’ve been. Glass kite figurines scatter about, smashed, in the living room, in the kitchen, and in the hallway. There’s also the leftovers of a broken glass bottle, with amber liquid splattered. Two half-eaten burgers sit on the coffee table. 

“There was barely a struggle. The goons got in, probably tranquilized Ivy, and got out,” Batman says. 

“What about Kiteman?” Harley asks. She fiddles with the precious pink flower Ivy had given her just before she was abducted. This is all she has left of her. 

“Uhh, they probably didn’t need to tranquilize him.” Batman flips his goggles up. 

“Are there any clues to where they were taken?” Harley squats in the living room, where a tatter of Ivy’s green utility shirt settles, folded in half.

“Not yet,” Batman says.

Clayface watches over Harley, reaching his hand out to help her up. “Even if we knew, it would be a trap, Harley. They’re using Ivy to lure you in,” he says.

“Then let them!” Harley says. “I love her. She’s only in this mess because of me. We have to save her.” And Kiteman, of course. 

“We can’t save her if we go in without intel,” Batman says.

Harley's voice cracks. “We don’t have time to plan. I love her.”

“I know,” Batman concurs. “We will save her, but we need to be prepared.” 

“He’s right, Harley,” Clayface says, leaning in close to her ear. “Let’s get to the bottom of this.” 

Nodding, Harley sweeps the room again. She investigates the smithereens of glass and the maple brown liquid. Dipping her pinky into it, she tastes it. 

“This is whiskey. And a very particular shitty whiskey. I don’t remember what it’s called, but it’s one of a kind,” Harley says. “But I definitely stole this from a shop.” 

Batman scans the pieces of glass and the liquid with his goggles, which reconstruct the bottle in a projected blue hologram. In the hologram, the bottle blinks, thick-necked and rectangular. The label is black and the lettering is old-timey, like a typewriter font. It reads: High Noon Whiskey. 

Tasting the brown liquid again, Harley announces, “This shit is definitely that other shit I stole. This stuff’s gotta be, like, a gazillion dollars!” 

Batman does a quick search to locate which places in Gotham sell High Noon Whiskey, through his heavy-ticking hologram database. “According to my database, there are only 3 stores that sell High Noon. We’re closing in on them.”

“We can’t go to 3 stores. We don’t have time for it,” Harley worries. “We gotta narrow it down more.” 

Clayface taps her on the shoulder. “Perhaps this will help?” He pinches the corner of Ivy’s utility sleeve, which has a pocket on the upper arm. A chunky black wallet falls to the floor, at Harley’s feet.

Harley picks up the wallet and removes its contents. 

She thumbs through a bar punch-card, an iTunes gift card, a few credit cards, a bottle opener, and a coupon card for Ol’ Bertha’s liquor shop. On the black coupon card, there’s a metallic scribble: _HQ_

“Harley Quinn??” Harley jumps back at the initials. “He _is_ trying to lure me in.” 

Clayface’s eyes glaze off to the skies. 

Batman studies the scribble. “I hate to break it to you, Harley, but ‘HQ’ stands for ‘headquarters’ in this case. But this is where they’re keeping Ivy.” 

“Wow, they took notes for us,” Clayface says, admiring the dog scrawl penmanship. 

“Let’s make a plan,” Harley says, beating her bat in her palm with a _thweck_. 

x o x o

Harley’s dressed to the teeth in a navy boiler suit, her burningly bright blonde hair down on her shoulders, the colorful tips chalked over. She carries Ivy’s pink flower in her breast pocket. A red paisley bandanna hides her white face. Clayface brushes against her shoulder, dressed in a matching boiler suit, masquerading as a nondescript Midwestern white goon. A black paisley bandanna hides his pleasantly unremarkable features. Batman’s swooping over Gotham, monitoring Black Mask’s troops on the ground.

Ol’ Bertha’s is a front, brimming with trashy liquor, giant bottles of wine, generic beer, and some very out-of-place world class whiskeys. 

Harley hollers at the cashier behind the counter, who is a mousy-haired woman in her late twenties, regretting her life from birth. “We’re here for the, uhh, happs, with Black Mask. You know, the big meeting,” Harley postures. 

The cashier’s half-open eyes don’t move, staying glued to her phone, scrolling through r/LateStageCapitalism, presumably. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” She jabs a thumb at the backroom, for “Employees Only.” 

Harley and Clayface scoot over the counter and into the backroom. It’s no larger than an office, with boxes and boxes of bills and bookkeeping papers lined against the wall. There’s a small school desk and one chair, both of which look stolen, to the left, with all the papers. A red button protrudes from the wall to the right. Harley bumps the button with her fist, shrugging at Clayface. 

The floor shifts underneath Harley and Clayface and a force sucks them down. They gulp down steep drops and stomach hairpin loops, deeper and deeper into the Earth. 

They reach the end of the ride, a hole spitting them out into a dark lounge, sprinkled in hazy purple light. A lo-fi guitar jam plays, like sweet syrup, the bass vibrating under Harley’s feet. Goons populate the lounge, smoking cigars, sipping martinis, playing cards, cleaning their guns and knives, beating each other up. Behind the slim and long bar counter, Black Mask bartends, in a pastel pink tree-print short sleeve shirt and shorts. He shakes a stainless steel mixer vigorously. 

The goons pay no mind to Harley and Clayface, even though they are the only two in this sleepy party that have bandannas snug on their faces. 

“That’s probably not Black Mask, right?” Harley inquires. “Right?”

“It would be too easy if he were,” Clayface says.

“We should still check, though, right?” 

Clayface nods like a bobblehead. 

Goons swivel around in their chairs at the bar, not noticing Harley crawling behind it. 

Clayface lifts his index finger at Black Mask. “I’d like to order a ‘Meryl Streep.’” 

Black Mask jerks his head back. “The fuck is that?”

“A drink that transforms into anything you imagine,” Clayface says.

Harley takes Black Mask down by the legs, slapping her hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming over the music. She peels a layer off his masked forehead with a pocket knife. He doesn’t bleed. Instead, a creamy orange seeps from his cut. Harley steps over him.

“Okay, so that’s not him,” she concludes. “Let’s get outta here.”

They amble through a thin black hallway, which floods into a maze of black hallways. Harley and Clayface stay bunched in one unit, inching through, hitting deadends, turning back, and reworking paths.

“What the hell is this place?” Harley mutters to herself. “What if Ivy isn’t here?”

“We will have gone through this maze for nothing, then.”

“That’s not comforting, Clay.” 

“Maybe it wasn’t for nothing,” he says, his eyes pointing ahead. Black Mask in a purple Armani suit, barrels towards them in a purposeful strut. 

Harley lunges forward, seizing Black Mask’s hand, and then snaps it from the ligaments and tendons fastening it together. His hand pops off, a _squackle_ of orange goop clinging to the black floor. She tosses him to the wayside. He’s just a goon. 

Harley and Clayface turn another corner, into a deadend. They square off to the right, where two Black Masks in matching white jumpsuits meet them. 

“Which one is real?” Clayface asks.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to find out.” Harley snatches one Black Mask by the collar. Clayface bitchslaps the other one with one enlarged hand. Orange snot ejects from that goon’s face. Harley pulverizes her Black Mask’s head against the wall, producing a bonk too loud for anyone to ignore. It’s just a goon.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Harley wonders out loud. “Black Mask is making imposters like bunnies.” 

“Probably to throw us off.” They shimmy through a tight hall. 

“Wait, do you think he knows we’re here?” She bites her fingernail. She just wants to know where Ivy is. 

“If he knew, don’t you think he’d send more henchmen?” Clayface replies. His goon face contorts, eyebrows smug. “My craft is truly impenetrable.” 

“Is it?” Harley ducks from a bullet. It grazes Clayface’s cheek, taking a chunk out momentarily. It heals. Another Black Mask appears, gun smoking. 

Tucking backwards, Harley dodges a line of bullets. She flings her bat like a javelin, clocking Black Mask in the throat. It’s not him, either.

There’s a dozen more Black Masks along the way. All of them are goons. They reach a room made of mirrors, the floor, ceiling, walls, all reflective. 

“Okay, I love my look as much as the next person, but this is overkill,” Harley says, admiring her backside in the mirrors.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clayface says, flexing his muscles and winking at himself in the ceiling mirror.

A wave of Black Masks, all in different clothes, bright, patterned, jarring, black, and white, flood into the room. Four of them pin Harley down, by her arms and legs. With ferocious strength, she wrenches free, sweeping their legs and bashing their backs in with her bat. 

Clayface handles four goons, slugging them with two giant clay fists, slashing through air at Nascar speeds. 

“ _Ahhghhh!_ ’ Harley helicopters her bat, her fists soon overflowing with the remnants of the poor experiment goons. “Which one of you is the _real_ Black Mask?” Her bat cuts through more goons. She windmill kicks one goon to the floor, fracturing it a little. These mirrors are durable if they can absorb Harley’s chaos. 

Clayface heaves a goon above his head and sends him flying into a group of Black Mask goons, causing them to crash against the mirror. The reflections just confuse Harley. It seems like there’s more Black Masks imposters than there really are—but she swings and lurches at anybody who comes near her.

Harley’s trapped in a corner, a deformed Black Mask in his typical white suit, his face skinned and bleeding. He pulls his guns from his waist holsters. 

“Guns? Aw, that’s no fun,” Harley whines. She lands a speedy bat, in the center Black Mask’s face. With one wide swipe of her left leg, she knocks the guns away. “You’re _bleeding_.” She grins at him. 

Black Mask smacks Harley in the jaw, and jerks the scarf from her face, revealing her identity. She jolts back, neck cricked against the floor and the wall. She calls for Clayface, who is back in his clay from.. She beats Black Mask with her bat, back and forth, back and forth, back and—

He catches the bat and busts it apart on his knee. “I knew you’d come crawling. Maybe I should call off the bounty on your head. I barely had to try,” he snickers. 

“Don’t ya think that’s a little dishonest?” Harley controls Black Mask with his tie, like a leash, strangling him with it, her arms taut around his body. “Come on, don’t you support a good bonus for your goons?”

Black Mask gags through her grip. “I’d have no money left, then. Promises are just lies you tell people to get them to do what you want.” He breaks from her chokehold, and hurls her into the floor. The mirror splinters around her shoulders. Stars cloud her vision. 

“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” Harley says. “Where is Ivy?” 

Clayface becomes more vicious. He violently quashes two goons together by the head. 

“She’s somewhere,” Black Mask coos. “How about you drop this nonsense and just take the money and stop anyone who gets in my way? You could take over Gotham with me.”

“Is that all it took for the Legion of Dicks?” Harley asks, dodging his punches. 

“It’s all it takes for almost anyone,” he says, bludgeoning her over the head with clasped hands and tacking her down by the throat. She can barely budge under him. 

“Where is she?”

“Somewhere.” His two-handed clench around her throat tightens. “Maybe you’ll end up in the same place as her.” He winks. 

_No. This fucking monster is lying. He has to be._

Harley’s eyes widen in pure fear and in concentrated rage. Ivy is everything to her. There’s nothing and no one who can replace her. She _knows_ she’ll never love anyone like she loves Ivy again. Harley’s nails draw blood from his tanned hands. His eyes, sharp like knives, flicker with deranged glee. She forces a bloodcurdling scream from her body, her voice grating in her esophagus. _Ivy is not dead. She can’t be._ _She can’t be._

Harley gains the upper hand for a split second, and drives Black Mask through the mirrored wall with the immeasurable and unending power of her being. His blood and her blood stream down her arms, legs, and forehead, and mirror shards stick in her skin. She tumbles onto the dirt floor, dust storming, using Black Mask as a surfboard. She looks up and sees them.

There they are.

Ivy, emo as ever, her hair wavy and tangled with flowers, her shorts ripped, her black top raggedy. She stares at Harley through bars. Kiteman bears a black eye, his kite suit threadbare. His nose is crusted with mucus and dried tears mark his eyes. Their holding cell is absolutely barren with dirt. 

“Hey.” Harley holds Ivy’s hand through the bars.

“Hey, you,” Ivy says, her voice warm. “Harley, look out!”

Harley turns around and a bright red ray narrowly misses her head. Black Mask has broken out his new and improved imposter ray. It’s so hefty that it’s got its own stand, with two sweat-crusted handles to direct and fire the ray. She’s able to evade every shot at her, until she runs into Clayface. The ray encapsulates his face.

“Oh, I hope I turn into Daniel Day Lewis in _There Will Be Blood_ ,” Clayface says, preparing himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, and squeezes his fists. 

Everyone waits in anticipation until it dies down with a flat thud. His face blobs, disintegrating, and then reforms. 

“Goddamn it,” Clayface moans. “I must suffer on.” 

“Well, that’s new.” Black Mask bellows. “But I’m sure this will put a better smile on her!” He aims at Ivy’s face. 

“Try again, motherfucker,” Harley says, launching a mirror piece into his face, messing up his aim. There’s not much more she can do before he _does_ shoot one of them with his imposter ray. They’ve got to get the hell outta there. Black Mask trains the ray on Harley.

“It was nice knowing you, Harley Quinn,” he taunts. 

Seconds elongate into molasses, but Harley’s still revved up at superhuman speed. She presses her breast pocket. The pink flower Ivy gave her is there. She caresses it between her fingers and meets Ivy’s knowing, green eyes. Harley knows what to do. 

Black Mask’s finger pulls the trigger and the ray heats up, shooting forth. Harley pitches the flower with a spinning precision, like a gorgeous spur, through the holding cell bars. From the air, Ivy surges through the flower, wild and lush branches erupting from the dirt floor. Spiky tendrils manifest from the branches. Her branches yank Harley out of the line of fire. But the blast still hits someone.

Ivy pries the bars apart and turns towards Kiteman and gasps. Everyone freezes. His face bends beyond what human bones should allow. And then it snaps back into place. But his _eyes and nose are gone._ His mouth is nothing more than a slimy gash. But Harley will mourn and dwell on that later. 

The Black Mask imposter influx continues, Clayface barely pushing them back, chunks of clay splashing on the walls and ground and then reabsorbing. 

Black Mask steadies the ray on Harley and Ivy, standing too close to one another. But before he can pull the trigger, Harley plants her foot in his chest, and he tumbles back. Ivy encases him in vines, but his fury is intense, his fury is unrelenting. They make the most of the three seconds they have before he wriggles out of Ivy’s hold. Harley wants to pluck the ray from Black Mask but there is no time and all that matters is Ivy gets out with her. 

The four of them escape the dirt room in a frantic panic, Black Mask scurrying away and out of sight.

x o x o

Ivy carefully butterfly tapes Kiteman’s wounds at his apartment. His roommate is nowhere to be seen. Harley sweeps the debris of his kite figurines and the whiskey bottle into a dustpan and tidies. On the way to his apartment, it becomes clear that Ivy broke off their engagement and ended their relationship while they were imprisoned underground. Harley can hardly believe it. _Ivy_ was the one who broke it off with Kiteman. Guilt hangs in the air.

“If it’s not too much to ask, I’m keeping our flower arrangements and caterer,” Kiteman says. “For someone who feels the same way about me as I do them.” It’s alarming to look him where his eyes should be, but all there is to look at is his gash mouth. 

“Of course, Chuck, of course,” Ivy says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Save it,” Kiteman sputters. “I don’t want to talk about it now. Maybe ever.”

“And I respect that,” Ivy says, leaving it at that.

“I mean, could you have waited until _after_ we escaped Black Mask’s lair?” He takes off his kite suit, but leaves his head covering on. 

Harley scoots away but continues to eavesdrop, washing the dishes. Something she’d normally never do until Ivy raged about it. 

Ivy clicks her tongue. “You know, I would’ve waited, but I didn’t know if we were getting out of there alive.”

“You couldn’t have given me the last decency of thinking you actually wanted to marry me?!” He groans.

Ivy throws her hands up, surrendering. “You know what? You’re right, you’re right. I will get out of your hair for now and give you some space. I will pack all my stuff up later.”

Kiteman waves her off and trudges into the hallway. Harley drops any dishes mid-wash, and darts after Ivy. They make their way to the rooftop of the building and sit on the edge, their legs dangling, precariously.

They revel in the quietude they can’t afford, but need. Harley can’t find words. She coughs and tries to catch Ivy’s eyes.

“So, what now?” Harley asks.

Ivy intertwines her left hand in Harley’s right hand. “I don’t know.” A half-smile, maudlin and yearning, crosses her face.

They gaze into the sky, in an unrushed panic. Emotion swells in Harley’s chest. A blinding white firework flares over Gotham, and hundreds of thousands of smaller rays fan out. This is Black Mask’s message to Gotham City: _Catch me if you can, Gothamites. You don’t know where to start. I’m calling the shots now. Get in line or don’t._


	9. for the record, gotham's already mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiteman's still faceless. Harley and her crew work tirelessly against the clock to find out where Black Mask is producing his imposter ray. If she doesn't stop him in time, it's not just Gotham she has to worry about. So much more is at stake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fast-paced, action-packed chapter! Hope you all enjoy :) !!

CHAPTER 9 — for the record, gotham’s already mine

It’s been a week since Black Mask got away again, Kiteman lost his face, and Harley saved Ivy. 

Conflagration devastates swaths of Gotham, buildings exploding and collapsing into rubble. 

Under Black Mask’s command, Firefly blights the Industrial district to hell, bombing it with napalm, lording above with his jetpack. Gothamites shriek and yelp in terror, some flailing and running from the flames, some crushed under the debris. 

Down on the Gotham Pioneer’s Bridge, Lex Luthor is suited to the gills in a hi-tech silver Krypto suit. He and an army of goons shove cars into the water below, sending hundreds to an icy death. There’s no rhyme or reason to this callous violence. It’s just business for Lex. Take orders from Black Mask, get paid, and rule a part of Gotham—and if all goes well, a state or two. 

In the Hall of Justice, Livewire forces representatives and office aides to destroy their library of laws, all of them bashing their desks, the walls, the shelves of books, everything with sledgehammers and axes. She shocks dissenters straight into the spine. Some of them shovel historical law books and reference materials into a fiery oil drum. 

On the roof of Krypton Korp media building, 100 stories tall, Silver Banshee drags Supergirl and smacks her around. Supergirl plugs her ears, in anticipation, but it doesn’t help much. Silver Banshee screeches, the soundwaves emerging from her mouth, percolating the air. Supergirl crumples on the roof, unconscious, helpless, and defenseless. 

In the rich outskirts of Gotham, Reverse Flash races up a storm, tearing up white picket fences and using them to impale the golfers and tennis moms spread across the neighborhood. No district and no neighborhood is safe.

Giganta batters down the barriers of Gotham, rejoining the rest of the U.S. Her rumbling footsteps bury seismic waves and send them quaking across the city.

The President may have torn Gotham from the rest of the nation, but Black Mask insists that ought to change.

Meanwhile, at the Batcave, faceless Kiteman challenges Batman and Clayface to a steak-eating contest. Food’s one of the only things that brings any semblance of normalcy and joy to them now. Gotham’s in shambles and all they’ve done is surveil the situation as it descends into a living inferno. 

In one of the guest rooms, Harley and Ivy lay on the queen bed, gazing into each other’s souls. It’s ridiculous.

“Is it weird that I mostly don’t feel _that_ guilty about it now?” Ivy prattling on. “I mean, I feel bad for him now, because, you know, his whole face is gone and we’re running out of time. But I feel like our whole dynamic is already better. He’s like that old hookup buddy that was nice for a while but really wasn’t fulfilling me when I wanted something more.” 

Harley’s patient with her, but she’s withering away at her ends. She twirls her hair. “You know I could never believe you used to willingly have sex with him.” She backtracks. Maybe that’s too mean and insensitive right now. “I mean, he grew on me, eventually. But some relationships just aren’t meant to be. And that’s okay, Ive.” 

“You think so?” Ivy whips her hair over onto one side and rests her head on her hand. 

“Yes, of course,” Harley says, nibbling at her lip. Butterflies flutter in the pit of her stomach, every time Ivy looks her in the eyes. _God, I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Every time she looks at me, I can’t deal._

Ivy goes on. “And I’m just getting used to opening up this huge part of myself, opening up to relationships, letting myself dive all the way in.” She lets the air simmer. “I’m scared, Harley.” 

_She’s telling me she’s scared to be with me._ It’s not a great admission, but it’s an admission that Ivy _wants_ to be with Harley. And though she might not have dumped Kiteman for Harley, she factored into the decision, right? 

“I’m okay with that,” Harley whispers, courageously. She could be way off-base, but she’s choosing to go with her heart—and her lizard brain. 

Ivy doesn’t see that coming. She stutters. “D’uh-what?” Her eyes dash, wandering down Harley’s crop top. “I know you wear that all the time, but what is up with your boobs today? They look amazing.” 

“Oh, yeah, I just got a new bra from this gluten-free company in the hipster Midwest,” Harley says, pulling her crop top down to flash her aptly-colored red and black bra. “No underwire. You wanna feel?”

Ivy doesn’t hesitate, her fingers tracing the underside of the bra. She’s genuinely impressed, if not a little flustered and sweaty. 

Clayface barges in, he sucks in a piece of steak into his gullet. Mouth full, he announces, “We’re headed out to the Industrial District to take Firefly down. Black Mask is there.”

Ivy removes her hands from Harley’s breasts.

x o x o

Another week flies by. The borders of Gotham have swayed and fallen. Black Mask has advanced towards neighboring states, New Jersey, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Vermont, Massachusetts. Quebec isn’t safe, either. Gotham’s sunken to Dante’s Inferno.

Up in the Luthor Corp National Skyscraper, on the 80th floor, Harley dodges and dives behind desks and throws chairs over her shoulder, trying to hit Lex Luthor and a sexually confusing tornado of Justice League imposters. He knocks her around the floor, her arms popping out of their sockets, her legs scraping and crashing against the furniture, glass digging deep into her palms and stomach.

The 80th floor _should_ house some of Gotham’s most lethal and effective weapons, like the imposter ray. But it’s just a glass-walled jungle with _other_ lethal and effective weapons, like a Kryptonite gun or an ulcer ray. It’s an open floor layout, dotted with desks where Luthor Corp employees spitball new weapon concepts, build them, and market them. 

A rugged Superman with a five o’clock shadow and an edgy undercut lasers through Ivy’s hardy vines. She rolls behind a desk chair for cover. Clayface and Kiteman tag-team imposter Flash and Green Lantern. Clayface melts into a puddle to mire Flash from zooming to stop the team from taking down Lex. Kiteman’s still faceless, and his jaw droops, almost like jowls. He distracts imposter Green Lantern, insulting his good looks, and challenging him to whack him like a mole with his humongous, glowing green mallet. Kiteman knows where his strengths and weaknesses lie. 

Batman manages hand-to-hand combat with a tatted up, septum-ringed Wonder Woman. His suit is tattered and filled with holes. His gait is uneven and unsteady. He charges all his weight and the last of his energy behind all his punches, wildly swiping and missing, collapsing into desks and tripping over rolling chairs. Imposter Wonder Woman artfully sidesteps him.

Harley shields Ivy from a storm of shattering glass. 

“So, the imposter ray blueprints are definitely not here,” Harley growls. An alien-green blast from the Kryptonite gun whirs past her head and into the desk she’s leaning on. 

“Yeah, ya think?” Ivy says. She waves her hand and seizes the Kryptonite gun from the random goon’s hands. She rises from the cover of her chair and shoots imposter Superman in the head. He jolts back, staggering, smashing against the tall window behind him. He slumps over, his hair matted with orange goop, like melted ice cream.

“Lex, humor me,” Harley says, grunting as she chucks someone’s five year work anniversary glass trophy at Lex. “Why go through with all this controlled chaos? Why isn’t Black Mask just killing everyone? Why the imposter ray?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Lex asks, his suit targeting Harley’s feet. A mini-bomb goes off under Harley and razes her to the ground. Lex advances and nearly knocks Harley’s head off her spine. 

Through her black eye, Harley squints at Lex, blood dribbling from her mouth. She spits on him. “He can’t be paying you that much.”

“Oh, he is. But the promise of something greater than all of Gotham awaits. We couldn’t have captured Gotham without the controlled chaos. It would’ve been too easy for the Justice League to kill the operation,” Lex explains, without fear. He knows he has the upperhand. 

Harley scoots away from him, not ready for another blow. She holds her head in her hands to brace herself. Ivy swoops in, scooping Harley away with a wide, flat leaf. 

“Okay, hon, enough. We gotta get the fuck outta here,” Ivy says, her voice dry and low. 

“But if the blueprints and the lab aren't here, where the hell are they? We’ve hit every fucking lab in Gotham, even the meth labs,” Harley pants. “We’re getting our asses handed to us.”

Ivy incapacitates Lex for a moment, tying him up in writhing vines. 

Imposter Wonder Woman lifts Batman over her head, her biceps bulging, and gets a running start. She hurls him through the window, her bracelets radiating golden light as his crumpled body bursts through the glass. She turns her attention towards Harley and Ivy. 

“Okay, time to go,” Harley says. “Clayface, Kiteman, we’re pulling out.”

Kiteman, beaten and bruised, some fingers broken, doesn’t even giggle at that joke. Clayface heaves, attempting to escape Green Lantern’s giant radial saw blade. Imposter Wonder Woman removes her crown and slings it with cutting precision. It impales Ivy in the upper arm, making a wet, suckling noise. 

Ivy yells in pain and puts pressure on her arm, green blood seeping through her fingers. “Ugh, I know she’s just an imposter but she looks even hotter like this. Even _with_ those Justin Bieber tattoos.” 

“Right? There’s no composition going on at all but she makes it work,” Harley complains. She limps into the elevator with the rest of her team, Ivy by her side. 

She’s got no fight left. And neither do the rest of them. Every fight has been a lost fight. Just when Harley thinks she’s closing in on Black Mask and his production ops, it vanishes into thin air. Harley’s been vanquished, defeated, and curbstomped, over and over, fracturing her arm twice, dislocating her jaw, nearly busting her appendix, collecting cuts, punctures, bruises, on her jaw, neck, cheeks, back, hands, everywhere. In the elevator, her fingertips feel fuzzy and her heart drains. Blackness shrouds her vision and her limbs give out.

x o x o

Harley blinks. Absentmindedly, a toad-like sound rasps from her throat. Ivy’s red hair tickles her cheek, cascading down. 

“Hey, you. You can’t keep passing out on me,” Ivy says, gently. 

“I can’t help it. I keep getting beaten down, Ive.” Harley realizes she’s resting on Ivy’s lap. It feels so natural. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

Ivy squeezes Harley’s hand. “We can do this, Harls. We have to stop Black Mask.”

Harley sits up in bed, her body feeling like a puppet’s. “Oh my God, Ive. Your arm.” She points Ivy’s left bicep, her black jacket plastered to her skin with fresh green blood. 

“Oh, this?” Ivy peels her jacket off, wincing ever so slightly. Stripped down to her tank, the gaping wound in her arm pulsates. She rips a strip from an old shirt draped over the bed, with her teeth. 

“Here,” Harley says, “let me.”

“No, I got it.” Ivy maintains eye contact, tourniqueting her wound, tying a knot, again with her teeth. 

Harley sucks in air. Ivy _knows_ exactly what she’s doing. _Alright, now she’s just showing off_. These are such mixed signals—didn’t she say she wasn’t ready to move on a week ago? Granted, this week has felt like six. “We should probably get back to intel.” She walks towards the door. 

“Harls, wait,” Ivy says, grasping her wrist. 

Harley meets Ivy’s eyes, expectantly.

“Nevermind,” Ivy blurts, like she’s suddenly lost confidence.

With ease, Harley tucks Ivy’s hair behind her ear, and kisses her. That’s what flips the switch on. Ivy unleashes a passion so fierce, she presses Harley against the door, their bodies hot on each other. Harley puts her hands under Ivy’s shirt, on her waist. If this doesn’t send a clear message to Ivy, nothing will. 

Someone bangs on the door. _Goddamn it_. 

“We might have a lead on where Black Mask is producing his imposter rays,” Batman says, on the other side of the door. 

Pulling away from Ivy, Harley traces the outer ring of her lips, wiping them. _That_ was a little messy, unhinged, and urgent. But it’s exactly what she needed. 

x o x o

“How are we sure _this_ is the place? And where the hell is Clayface?” Harley asks, gesturing to the giant neon yellow sign in front of her. It reads “Loan Dolphin.” The microscopic tagline probably says: “Not a shark, but close ;). Let us put YOU in debt.” 

“Yes, this is it. If we don’t stop him today, we won’t be able to stop him from mass-producing imposter rays that are stable and lethal. If he sells them, we are done.” Batman shakes Harley by the shoulders. “We won’t get a second chance after this Harley.”

_Batman’s afraid, like really afraid. Or at least, he’s openly expressing it now. This is it_. Harley barely got a chance to wake up or heal or take a breath, or even to scarf down a Pop Tart. Fuck, she had to pee but Batman said there was _no_ time for _that_. There was no time to prepare, even a little. She hasn’t even had the chance to beg Ivy to be with her. Yes, they made out for a very hot second, but that was cut short. Everything feels like it’s being cut short. 

“How can we be sure this is where Black Mask is producing everything?” Ivy interrogates. She hunches over, behind bushes. 

Faceless Kiteman groans. His sagging face jiggles when he speaks. “Please, can we just go in, and get my face back? Please.” 

“I’ve been keeping track of the cash flow in Gotham, to keep an eye on where the Legion of Doom is doing business and with who. As it turns out, some of Gotham’s worst have been coming in and out. And politicians from all over the nation have been donating here. There was some federal funding, too, this week,” Batman explains. He deadpans. “Really, it’s the politicians and federal involvement that gives it away.” 

“Ah, say no more,” Ivy says, waving her hand. “This is definitely the place, Harls.” Her eyebrows furrow into focus.

“I know you can’t see my face, but I’m pumped,” Kiteman says. “Let’s get some faaace.”

“Alright, so are we doing tunnels, explosions, a swarm of bats, or a gorgeous, man-eating Venus flytrap?” Harley asks, clapping her hands together. She’s ready to demolish. 

“None of the above,” Batman replies.

Harley hangs from the ceiling beams in the Loan Dolphin lobby. For a place that has predatory lending practices, this is too nice and too huge. The ceilings are high, the floor is glossy white marble, the seats aren’t actively crumbling from financial distress, there aren’t posters and flyers plastered everywhere advertising home loans with astronomical APR rates. Harley watches a tall, square-shouldered white man with short black hair question the front desk worker. She squints. That’s Bruce Wayne. 

She edges forward, her body flat on the beams, stopping above Bruce. 

“I’m here to meet with Black Mask,” Bruce says. “We have some business to discuss.” 

The front desk worker is a young Philippino man, a new graduate. His eyebrow is perpetually raised. He adjusts the tie and his suit coat, sizing up Bruce. “How do I know you’re the real Bruce Wayne? How do I know you’re not—”

Bruce reaches into his blazer and pulls out a photo with two fingers. He hands it to the front desk worker. “Hope that clears it up.” 

Harley strains to see the photo. It’s a picture of young Roman Sionis, about fifteen, pre-Black Mask. He seems unhappy, standing stoically between his pasty adoptive parents, his sharp cheekbones hollowing out his face. His thick black hair blows in the wind. His hooded, angular eyes spear the camera. 

“Here’s another one,” Bruce says, handing the desk worker another photo. This one is of _himself_ , with hearts drawn around his head. Just like that poster Harley had seen when Black Mask captured her for bagging Vandal Savage. Questions populated her mind. _Wait, does Bruce Wayne have feelings for Black Mask? Or is this guy not Bruce Wayne? What the fuck is happening?_

The desk worker nods. He pokes his thumb over his shoulder. “Elevator’s back there, the code today is: 794025. Hit the alarm button after you put the code in or it won’t work.” 

Bruce thanks the guy and takes his photos back. He makes his way to the left, just behind the front desk. Harley inches forward on the beams. As soon as the elevator doors swing open, Harley drops down. She pushes Bruce into the elevator, linking her arm in his, and puts her hand over his mouth. 

“Don’t scream. Punch in the code,” she commands. She feels the wetness of his teeth on her hand when he smiles.

“Harley, it’s meeee,” he says. Bruce Wayne devolves into Clayface. He sings the code as he presses the elevator buttons. “7-9-4-0-2-5, alaaarm.” 

“Wow, Clay. That’s some of your best work. The photos were a really good touch,” Harley gushes. 

“Ah, yes. I do love an authentic prop.” The elevator abruptly whooshes to the right, slamming Harley into Clayface. She becomes embedded in clay for a second, before he rebuilds himself. The elevator enters a freefall, scoots to the left, and then accelerates forward at whiteknuckle speed. 

“Oh, God,” Harley says, nausea brewing up to her throat. “Do they have barf bags on this ride?”

“I clayed myself several times.” _Click, click, click_. The elevator creaks to a halt.

There’s not much to explore. The production lab is right in front of Harley and Clayface. It’s a sterile white lab. White tables, white lab stools, white tools. Inside, there are about forty scientist goons working, some wearing goggles and melding small imposter guns together, some measuring undisclosed pink and blue chemical substances into test tubes and beakers, some fucking around with Bunsen burners. The giant imposter ray stands in the middle of the room, on a sturdy tripod, under layers of indestructible glass. _This is where Black Mask is making his weapons._ _We’re here. And there’s all these imposter guns. One for each of us._

Harley reaches into her pockets and retrieves some mini-bombs that Batman gave to her, with a little too much desperation. She gives Clayface four mini-bombs and keeps four for herself. This might not be enough. She takes a breath. This seems too easy. She texts Ivy and Batman the code to get in. Black Mask is certain to know they’re here within minutes. They have _minutes_ to save Gotham.

“Alright, let’s get in there,” she sighs. She high-fives Clayface. She throws the door open with an unmistakable _krklank!_

The scientists immediately spring into action, arming themselves with imposter guns, flamethrowers, freeze guns, good ol’ fists, and plain ol’ guns. Harley cartwheels to the right. Clayface flanks left. A freeze blast flies over her head. She kicks the freeze gun out of the goon’s hand and flings a mini bomb over his head, sticking it flat on the pillar housing a large lab table, _with the imposter blueprints_. She tumbles away to avoid the blast. Goon guts splatter across the floor. An eyeball rolls against her knee. Soot rains down around her.

Clayface takes on six goons at once, spinning himself like pottery, his arms like knifed tentacles. He plants three mini-bombs, _one, two, three_ , on one pillar, on a lab table, on a goon. They detonate in quick succession, and a fire rips through the back of the lab. 

Harley stuffs her fist in a goon’s bloated and bumpy face. His forehead bulges like cauliflower, and the left side of his face is purple. It looks like some kind of lab accident. He plants a roundhouse kick, and Harley meets the floor, three mini-bombs clattering. She scoops them back up and backflips, dodging the goon. She uses a chair to bludgeon him and raises her foot to crush his trachea. But before she does, she notices his face isn’t so swollen and lumpy anymore. _He’s healing_. She stomps down and aims two mini-bombs at the lab table with the imposter gun parts. _BAAANG!_ Metal whines and shoots around like projectiles. One L-shaped piece of metal pierces the wall behind Harley. 

By this time, Batman, Ivy, and Kiteman have joined in the fight. Kiteman’s not much help, though. He thrashes and flings around frenetically, feeling his way around goon jaws and limbs. A blast hits him in the back. He stands perfectly still, frozen, hands stuck in a scratching motion. His mouth is mid-scream. Goons slip across lab tables, like ragdolls. Harley flings her last mini-bomb at a pillar near the entrance. Clayface throws his last mini-bomb with abandon at a wall near the emergency shower. The lab is in shambles, flames licking away, devouring it from the back of the room.

Two goons shoot imposter guns at Harley, the red rays smoking past her head, lobbing off some hair. “That’s too close,” she mutters. She springs to the right and then to the left. Blasts clip closer and closer to her head. And then, with a running start, she skates on the side of her body, buckling their ankles. Both of them look absolutely shredded by whatever the fuck they’re doing in this lab. But they’re both healing rapidly right in front of her. She bashes their heads together like good eggs on the side of a hot pan. 

Ivy backs into Harley. “So, what’s the plan here, babe? What, uh, are we doing after this?” She grips onto six goons with her vines and tosses them into the fire, roasting them like green chile. 

Harley bites the ear off a goon and snaps his neck. “Oh, uhm. How do you feel about cider? I know you don’t like IPAs, so—”

“No, Harley, n-not that. I meant, like, now. How are gonna end this?” She grabs Batman by his shoulders to save him from the flamethrower. 

“Right, that. These goons have been working on this imposter ray for months and there’ve definitely been some accidents around here.” Harley uses Kiteman as a frozen human shield, against the flamethrower. He breaks out of the ice, finally.

“Yeah, their faces are all fucked up,” Ivy contends.

“Temporarily,” Harley says. “They’re all healing. Ive, that means there is an antidote around here somewhere.”

“Oh, shit,” Ivy says, her voice cracking. She smacks a goon to next week with her green hand, making a sickening _flap_ sound. He won’t be waking up in his earthly body ever again.

The remaining three goons are surrounded, Harley, Ivy, Kiteman, Batman, and Clayface in a circle around them. 

“We know you have an antidote to the imposter ray—show us where it is and we won’t feed you to King Shark,” Harley demands. She clamps a flint lighter, sparks flying off. 

One goon leads them to a desk drawer under the rubble of the pillar near the entrance. He frantically unlocks it, barely able to stick the key into the lock. He pulls the drawer open. 

Empty vials sit in the drawer. All empty. There’s no antidote left. There’s absolutely nothing left. There’s dried pink remnants of what _was_ the antidote. 

“What? Why is everyone so quiet?” Kiteman asks. He gets the message quickly. He reads the room. “Damn it.”

Harley pipes up. “No, no, no. We can still fix this, we can still fix this. There’s gotta be more vials in here. There has to be.” _He’s gonna die. He’s out of time. He’s already started to deteriorate. This shit happens fast._

“How about I turn you all into The Spice Girls and we call it day?” 

Everyone whips around. It’s motherfucking Black Mask. He shoots into his scientist goons, one bullet to the head for each of them. Ruthless. 

Harley and the team fan out. Black Mask shoots until he’s out of bullets, reaching the middle of the room. On his voice command, the glass surrounding the imposter ray lowers into the floor. He’s ready to end this. He holds the trigger down, shooting a continuous ray around the lab. 

Harley grabs Ivy by the hand and yanks her behind a lab table. “Jeez, Harls! I can handle myself.”

“Ivy, I love you more than anything in the entire world. I won’t let anything happen to you,” Harley says, their hands interlacing. “And, because, I want to take you out on a date. Whaddaya say? Friendship be damned.” 

“I love you too, Harley,” Ivy says. “And yeah, what the hell, let’s go on a date.” She shrugs. 

Black Mask floats into the air, morphing into Sinestro, flinging yellow axes at Batman. Clayface gets sliced in half. He rolls his eyes in exasperation. Kiteman hides himself under a pile of soot and rubble.

“So, what happened to being scared?” Harley asks, staying out of Black Mask’s view.

“I guess the fear of breaching our friendship isn’t what really scares me. It’s not trying to explore this with you that does. I never knew I could feel this way about a person,” Ivy says. 

That’s so extremely sweet. Harley smiles at Ivy, but it’s interrupted by Black Mask morphing into Superman, rushing towards them, freezing breath filling the air. Harley and Ivy split apart. Harley lobs a chunk of the pillar at imposter Superman, but he burns it to a crisp with his eyes. Ivy subdues him with a plant that releases noxious green gas. He loses consciousness, in the air, for a beat. But then he zooms back to the imposter ray, manning it. Batman sets his grapple hook on imposter Superman’s suit and hauls him off his feet. He morphs into imposter Green Lantern, levitating in the air. He wields a green chainsaw the size of a small car around, chopping into the wall, into the tables, into the pillars to reveal everyone’s hiding spots. 

Clayface grows larger and absorbs the chainsaw’s carnage, clogging up the chain quickly. Harley and Ivy lob anything they can get their hands on at imposter Green Lantern, striking him in the head and back. He morphs into imposter Wonder Woman.

“Give it up, you Gotham bilge rats!” Imposter Wonder Woman bellows. “Why are you defending this fallen city? You could’ve joined me and been on the winning side of this fight.” He guards his imposter ray, shooting blasts at Batman and Clayface. Each blast hits the wall behind them, singeing holes in safety and hazard posters. Some of them fall to the floor.

“Because this is my fucking city, you asshat,” Harley says. That’s so obvious. She fashions a bat out of the scrap metal in the chaos of the lab. Imposter Wonder Woman tries to catch her with her lasso, but it merely whips Harley. She connects her dense, heavy metal bat. Right in imposter Wonder Woman’s stomach. She seizes her by the hair and shoves it down on her knee cap. Warm blood spews from her nose and onto Harley’s legs. Just girly things. 

Imposter Wonder Woman lands one bone-shattering punch on Harley’s shoulder. Harley trips backwards and onto her ass. Towering over her, Imposter Wonder Woman stomps on Harley’s hand, disarming her, punting the bat away. She rips Harley from the floor and smashes her against the pillar closest to the imposter ray, her back turned against it. Imposter Wonder Woman wallops Harley in a flurry of punches and swift kicks. Harley spits blood from her mouth. Ivy tries to intervene but imposter Wonder Woman clashes her bracelets together, sending shockwaves through the lab, wiping everyone out, their spines crashing against the corners of the wall. Ivy pats down her sleeve, which is on fire. 

Harley sees Batman darting behind imposter Wonder Woman, making a run for the imposter ray. But he’s not fast enough. Black Mask returns to his normal form, blood still dripping from his nose. He wipes it on the sleeve of his white suit. “You think you can stop me? You’re too late!” He clutches the handles of his imposter ray and misses Batman’s head by millimeters. There’s one safety poster still hanging on the wall, but just one corner drooping down. Batman rips it off the wall. A safe glistens at him. 

“ _No!_ ” Black Mask shouts, his arm outreached. That’s the reaction of a terrified man. Of a panicked man. Harley _knows_ what’s in the safe. And so does everyone else.

Batman drops a smoke bomb. The lab disintegrates for a second. Harley and Ivy nod at each other. Clayface manhandles Black Mask, shaking him into submission. Ivy pulls the trigger on the imposter ray, shooting him in the face with one resounding red blast. Harley helicopters her metal bat at violent speed and slugs the imposter ray, rendering it useless, turning into a pile of hot metal. Batman forces the safe open, heaving on his grappling cable. The smoke dissipates. Harley, Ivy, and Clayface box in Black Mask, laying on the floor, his tan hands bloodied and scraped up, clasping his face. He removes his hands, trembling. Harley can smell his fear, swirling in the air. 

“Oh, my god,” Harley gasps. “Well, I was hoping for something a little more exciting.” 

Black Mask no longer bears his horrifying mask. Instead, he bears his own face. _Roman Sionis_. This is his final form. 

Batman swipes his cape through the air to clear out the smoke from the fire a little. “We have the antidote now.” He holds up a corked vial, plentiful with pink liquid. “I’ll find out what goes into this antidote and mass-produce it. Then, we distribute it through Gotham.”

“Please, I have so much money. I can pay you anything you want. We can do business. I can give you all of Gotham. Please,” Roman blabbers on, begging. He stays on the floor. 

“Money’s _all_ you have, asshole,” Ivy says. “Fuck off.”

“Yeah, fuck off.” Harley slaps him for good measure. “And for the record, Gotham’s already mine.” 

“Now that’s good character work,” Clayface says, jabbing a finger at Roman. “The way you went from defiant to absolute bitch. You must teach me.” 

Kiteman chugs the antidote like a rabid dog. “Is it done? Is my face back?” He feels his cheeks. One eye pops back. Then part of his nose. Then the other eye. His skin gradually tightens, lifting itself. 

“So, can you guys deal with this? I have some really important plans with Ivy that I _really, really_ can’t wait on,” Harley says. She winks at Batman. He gives her an understanding nod. 

“What’s so urgent?” Ivy asks. 

“You’ll see.” Harley takes her by the hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a guess at the opening scene of Chapter 10. I dare ya. ;)


	10. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter opens immediately after Chapter 9. Harley and Ivy (and the team) have just taken Gotham back from the brink of destruction and from Black Mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, we've reached the end of this storyline! It's been a pleasure writing it week-to-week and seeing everyone's comments. This was so fun!

CHAPTER 10 — epilogue

When Harley told Batman she had _plans_ with Ivy that she couldn’t wait on, it was really more of a primal need that she was acting on. She feels bad for bailing, but not that bad. Batman, Clayface, and Kiteman can handle getting Roman Sionis into Arkham Asylum and pulling the reins in on Gotham’s worst—they won’t get much further without Black Mask at the helm. 

Harley hotwires a car and drifts onto the road, driving like someone’s chasing her. Ivy gets comfortable in the passenger seat. 

“So, what are these plans we have? You mind letting me in on this little secret?” Ivy asks, as Harley spins around a corner.

“Well, first, tell me where you’re staying,” Harley says. The car plows forward, aimlessly. 

“At those new apartments near Robinson Park. I wanted to be near my jungle,” Ivy says. “And you know, play with those newly installed Gentrifier Skeleton xylophones.” 

“You got approved for an apartment that fast?” Harley says, already distracted.She ignores the xylophone thing. It does sound fun, though. She drives in the park’s direction, swerving through traffic, racing redlights. 

“I wouldn’t say approved,” Ivy says, her voice trailing off at the end. Harley knows what that means. It’s more than likely Ivy fed the apartment manager to Frank. Or chucked them out the window. One of the two. “So, what are we doing?”

“Are you cool if we do it at your place?” Harley blinks expectantly. 

“Sure. But what is it that we’re doing?” 

“I don’t know, you tell me.” Harley can barely think straight. She puts her hand on Ivy’s thigh. 

“You’re being extra Harley today,” Ivy says, squeezing Harley’s hand. “Is my apartment our first date? Is that what we’re doing?”

“Yeah, te-technically. It’s a first date,” Harley nudges. “And I can’t wait.”

“ _Me neither_.”

Smash cut to: Harley pinning Ivy against her apartment door, kissing her madly. Harley flicks the lock into place, because Ivy’s always been paranoid about that kind of stuff, even though she’s a literal supervillain who can control all living greenery. Harley? Not so keen on paranoia. If someone wanders into this apartment, Harley’s not one to fuck with. 

Harley strips off Ivy’s jacket, but she doesn’t cleave it apart—that’s just wasteful. In theory, it’s hot, but in practice, it’s always regretful. Both of their bodies are battered and fresh with bruises and scrapes. Ivy’s tourniquet is still around her arm. Harley’s breath hammers in her throat. Ivy lays kisses on Harley’s neck, sucking in skin. Lifting Ivy’s white tank top off, Harley locks hands with Ivy. Harley flings Ivy’s bra off. Ivy takes the lead and hoists Harley up, fingers digging into her supple thighs, carrying her to the bedroom. 

Ivy places Harley down on the bed. Harley kneels before Ivy, reaching forward and unzipping her pants. She tugs them down in a hurry. Nothing’s ever been more urgent. But Ivy calls the shots here. She crawls above Harley, chest to chest, their skin scorching one another. Ivy strips _everything_ off Harley, leaning down to bite her collarbone. Harley buries her fingers in Ivy’s hair, her mouth warm and wet against hers, tongue tasting hers. Ivy moves down methodically, her lips drawing in Harley’s breasts. Ivy stays there for a moment, before her hand wanders down Harley’s abdomen, running over her taut muscles.

A gasp erupts from Harley’s mouth, involuntarily, when Ivy’s fingers enter her. Sweat damp on both of them, their limbs tighten around each other for an everlasting moment. Harley’s rakes Ivy’s back, rocking in line with her before breaking rhythm. She pants into Ivy’s ear. _With. Every. Thrust_. 

Ivy’s thumb hangs from Harley’s lip, tracing them roughly. Harley gives it some teeth. And then she sees stars, swirling, coasting. She doesn’t hold back either. She can’t wait to release the tension. 

x o x o

2 WEEKS LATER

Clayface buys a round of shots for the table, but Batman doesn’t drink. And neither does Jim Gordon. Harley and Ivy chug down shots, arm in arm, like newly-weds. Noonan’s is filled with normal-looking, non-mask wearing goons again. Kiteman is kiting around Europe, picking up hot Italian women who are twice as tall as him. Harley doesn’t blame him.

“And thAAat’s how I nabbed the lead role for ‘Milf who hates her husband because he’s a little bitch’ for I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!” Clayface turns into an attractive forty-something Chinese woman with perpetually surprised eyes, an ass like Texas, a farmer’s tan, and black hair as voluminous as a cloud. Her plum lips begs for a butter substitute. “I’m shooting it in three months.” She scrunches her soft, wide nose.

“Three monthsss? Yeesh,” Ivy slurs. Her arm drapes over Harley’s shoulders.

“He likes to plan, okay? Leave him alone,” Harley says. His ridiculousness is endearing. 

“Yes, and that 30-second spot I did for Gotham Mattress Company is finally coming out. In a month,” Clayface says, beaming with all his teeth. 

Batman’s phone rings. He takes it at the table, pushing his voice down into his throat. “Hey. Oh. Okay. I’m headed your way.” He stows away his phone. “I’ve gotta get going.”

“Oh, God. Don’t tell me there’s more shit going on. Who is it now? Giganta? Bane? Deadshot?” Harley groans, leaning on her elbow. She slides forward. Ivy pecks her cheek. 

“Uh, no. It’s nothing,” Batman mutters. He scoots out of his chair. He’s rushing to leave.

“No, come on,” Harley says. “I knooow I’m drunk but I can still kick ass. I can. Just gimme a gat and I’ll give him the boon.” 

“O-kay,” Ivy says, dragging Harley back into her seat. “Shhh, sit down, baby.” She turns her attention to Batman. “Okay, but seriously, where are you headed? Why are you being so secretive?”

“Yeah, what’s up with you, Bats?” Harley leans in closer, over the table, to get a better look at him. “Oh, my God, you’re blushing. You’re _blushing_.” _Batman can blush?_

Batman’s mouth scrunches into a tight circle. “I’m leaving now.” 

“Don’t forget we’re getting ice cream tomorrow,” Jim calls out, raising a glass of sparkling water. He waits for Batman to leave Noonan’s and then spills the beans. “He’s going to see Catwoman.”

“Whaaat?” Harley exclaims. “She’s not dating Red Tool anymore? I mean, not that I’m _not_ happy for her and him. She was way too hot for Red Tool.”

“Then again, that never stopped him,” Ivy jabs, winking at Harley. 

Jim snorts and wipes his nose. “She dumped Red Tool and then called Batman up but he said no, initially, but I told him he was being stupid so he called her back and they’ve been hooking up for a week now and taking it slow.”

“Good for him,” Ivy says.

Jim imitates Catwoman’s whip cracking. “Yeah, it’s gonna hurt so good for him.” 

“About time. He was such a mopey mess,” Harley says. Alcohol sweats out of her pores.

“About time I go after her for stealing,” Jim grunts.

Clayface pats Jim’s shoulder. “Don’t be that guy, Jim.”

x o x o

THE NEXT DAY

“So, I’m gonna need to break my lease here,” Ivy says to the apartment landlord, leaning on the ugly, mottled brown counter. Harley twirls a pen on her knuckles and eyes the nondescript white landlord, his freckles sprinkled across his nose. 

“You’ll have to pay two-thou—”

Ivy waves her hand nonchalantly, and vines from the ceiling take him by the arms. “I’ll be out by tonight.”

Cue the killer bassline and montage through Gotham in a red convertible.

Harley and Ivy set foot in a dingy, grey apartment. The model two-bedroom is all sharp corners. All a slightly different shade of grey than the wall. The walls are slate and blend into one another. “Hmmmm, I don’t think so,” Harley concludes. 

The next apartment floats above Gotham, in a buzzing red spaceship that exudes evil vibes. The furniture inside is white, flat and too close to the floor. Like disks. Too futuristic. “I don’t think this is the vibe we’re going for either,” Ivy says. 

Dust fills Harley’s lungs. She and Ivy hunch over in a dirt apartment, dug by a villainous groundhog who hasn’t yet found his footing in the spotlight. The bed is roughly fashioned out of a rectangular mound of dirt. The couch and TV stand are also shaped from compressed pats of dirt. Ivy puffs dust from her mouth and beats her jacket off. “As much as I love the idea of being underground—” Harley sneezes. “—this doesn’t live up to expectations.” 

A pit from the earth burps fire. Ivy shields Harley with her arm. A mouth of flames roars behind them, bleating heat into the living room. The apartment is housed in a cave, but it’s not full of bats. It’s full of giant millipedes, crawling up and down the walls. The furniture is built from stone. Harley shrieks and pulls a millipede from her pants. Ivy shoves Harley away. She hates anything with too many legs. “Shit, shit, shit! I’m tapping out. I’m out!” Ivy proclaims, flailing from the cave without looking back at Harley. 

The next apartment lives in a creaking pirate ship, complete with rotting wood and holes in the walls. The bed comforter’s pink and looks like it’s never been washed. And, also looks like someone was stabbed through the bed, because there’s a sword stuck in the middle, like Excalibur. Harley slaps a swinging parrot prop, and it squawks, over the bed. The kitchen stinks to high heaven with rum, which is not Harley or Ivy’s choice of drink. “This is not sexy,” Harley says.

“Ugh, Harls, this is the tenth apartment we’ve been to today. I’m exhausted,” Ivy says, her voice rumbling. 

“Yeah, but this one’s off the books. Nobody knows about this place,” Harley says, climbing through a window. This isn’t _really_ an apartment. More of a reclaimed evil headquarters.

“I don’t know if that makes me feel better,” Ivy says. She sighs. “Do you think we’re moving in too fast?”

“I think we’re not moving fast enough, Ive.” Harley holds her hand out. “This is long overdue. We’ve gotta make up for lost time.” 

“That’s true.” Ivy smirks at Harley. “I’ve loved you for a long time, Harls.” Ivy climbs in after her. 

“Look at _that_.” 

“ _Woooow_ ,” Ivy purrs. She pans up to the high ceilings, a paneled window, like a greenhouse. The place is completely barren of furniture. There’s some wooden pallets in the corner and crunchy yellow leaves accumulating near the entrance area. A long, skinny white counter zig zags through the kitchen area. Harley and Ivy’s footsteps echo across the smooth concrete. It’s the perfect size.

“Is this it?” Harley asks.

“This is definitely it.” 

x o x o

“Harls, come on. Just try it,” Ivy goads. “Please. Please?” She pushes the bowl of poke, glistening with ahi tuna, towards Harley.

“Ewww,” Harley says, sticking her tongue out. She sniffs the bowl and taps her chopsticks together. 

“Listen, it’s like—it’s like deconstructed sushi,” Ivy says. “This is my date night pick. You gotta try it.”

“I do like sushi. And I _do_ need protein right now,” Harley says, stuffing her face full. “I’m gonna need it for this date.” 

Ivy bursts through a brick wall with two menacing plant fists. Harley scoots in, lunging with a brand new, black and red bat. They’ve interrupted Gotham Oil and Gas Fracking Company’s quarterly board meeting. All top hats and old white guys. 

Cross-cut to Harley and Ivy’s furnished apartment. Never too many geometrically-potted succulents and terrariums dangling from the ceiling. Pan up to Harley’s wrists, tightly bound together by a vine. Ivy pulls her up by her wrists, Harley’s feet hovering above the floor. “I _am_ always tied up,” Harley giggles. Ivy kisses her. 

Cut back to the board room. Harley’s bat buries itself in the head honcho’s saggy face, pulverizing his eagle nose into three different pieces. Ivy vines and chokes the men, one by one, and lobs them in the air life baseballs. _Bok, bok, bok._ Harley hits each of them through the walls, utterly reducing their skulls to splinters and mush. Ivy seizes the last guy, who, by the way, is accused of deliberately poisoning reservation water—a passion project on the side, separate from the whole fracking thing—and flings a curveball at Harley, egging her on. Harley loves a challenge.

Cross-cut to Ivy breathing over Harley’s neck, massaging her bare shoulders. Ivy moves at a painstakingly slow pace, nibbling her way up to Harley’s ears. Hairs spiking up, Harley shudders. Anticipation ebbs in her ribs and floods into her chest. Articles of clothing scatter next to them.

Cut to Harley and Ivy at an art gallery, awash in cheese boards and sour wine. Skinny women in black dresses and men with skinny ties point their noses at acrylic paintings of pastel pink blobs. “I gotta say, hon, I really didn’t see you taking us out to an art opening,” Ivy says, readjusting the lapel of her forest green suit. She’s not wearing anything under it. 

Harley shrugs. “I normally wouldn’t give a fuck but this is the tenured college professor who’s gunning to be Gotham University’s next president.” Another day, another jumpsuit for her. This one’s blossom pink and cinched in the middle with a tie. Harley gestures to a smarmy, mustached man who is Salvador Dali-lite. He dons a bright yellow suit, dying for attention.

“So?” 

“He’s threatening to derail grades if students don’t send him nudes,” Harley explains. “And he wants to raise tuition by 10 percent.”

“Fuck him.”

Cross-cut to Ivy biting Harley’s ear, her hands still tied above her, but her feet touch the ground now. Ivy positions herself, her arm snaking around Harley’s waist before she’s inside her. And once she is, Harley flexes every muscle from her lower back to the center of her core. Ivy sways with her, fluidly.

Cut back to Harley shoving the professor’s football-shaped head through a canvas. Ivy forgoes the plants all together, swiping a bottle of wine from a server’s tray, and bashing it into the professor’s mouth. Harley jams her heel into his chest and Ivy shoves him into the stone sculpture of a Trojan soldier with a well-placed spear. Blood squirts on Harley’s face when the professor is impaled on the spear, the sound of his dying muted by the bottle in his mouth. _This is paradise_. Harley gazes at Ivy, her heart swelling like the string section in a period film.

Cross-cut to Ivy railing against Harley at breakneck speed, her chest pressed against her back. She loses focus in the madness, her vines slacking, dropping Harley. Ivy flips Harley around, facing her, and they continue where they left off—at a reckless rhythm. Ivy sinks her thumbs into Harley’s hips, bringing her close, again and again and again. Harley moans into Ivy’s mouth, arching her back, and then pulls Ivy as close as humanly possible. She’s _holding on_. 

Cut to Ivy’s hand linked in Harley’s. The two of them swing at Robinson Park, which is still engulfed in jungle vines and tropical trees. 

“I’m so in love with you,” Harley says. She scans the park, but she’s not looking for anything or anyone. This is just a run-of-the-mill swing-in-her-girlfriend’s-reclaimed-park kind of date.

“Who knew you were such a softie,” Ivy teases. She chuckles and grows a flower from the air. She sticks it behind Harley’s ear. 

“Have you met me?” Harley says. “You know, a few months ago I _thought_ I didn’t know what I wanted. But I did.” 

Ivy swings higher. “I think I can say the same for myself. I just—dragged my feet a little. And made a few mistakes along the way.”

“It all worked out, though,” Harley says. “We’re here now, right?”

“We’re here now,” Ivy says, smiling at her, her green eyes unwaveringly brilliant.

They swing in tandem, falling into line, watching the tangerine sunset settle over Robinson Park. Harley can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossing my fingers for a Season 3 renewal. In the meantime, I might consider writing a short collection of Harlivy shenanigans. Who knows?


End file.
